


Opium and Old Tea

by oneinspats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, I'll add more as I think of them, M/M, Private Investigator, Raymond Chandler would be laughing then scoffing because dames don't write fiction, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ankh-Morpork noir. Sam Vimes is a PI. Vetinari has a case. Who is this Madam person? Ms Sybil (who does not sell dragon eggs illegally. Why are you asking?) kicks ass. Downey is shifty. Bogus is too. </p><p>It's a grand old, humid, rain, whiskey, and cigar smoke drenched time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You and Dragons

These things start slow. That’s what old Johnny Keel used to say. Down by where the river rats moor and two-thirds through an Agatean bold. He smoked worse than me and that’s saying he was worse than Ankh-Morpork as a whole. He said that they start out slow – real slow then slap you across the face harder than a broad three sheets to the wind at high noon. Big cases are like beautiful women, he’d say, they’re like a fine malt and a hand rolled smoke – slow but gods when they knock you flat there’s no where to go but down.

  

It is raining when this one starts. One of those soft rains. Run off buildings like bathwater off a pair of legs. I’m wrapping up the Dragon Affair, the one with Lupy “Dragon Keeper” Wonse.  It’s halfway through a midnight cigar when there comes a knock at the door.

It’s not the time for clients and I’m in shirtsleeves and dirty breeches with boots dripping by the cold fire. But the knocking ain’t stopping so I holler for them to enter. My secretary, Ms Sybil, would have been cool and all raised-eyebrows about it but I’m not a crooner like her.

 

The door opens and in walks a tall, thin wall of dusty black. The man is Quirmian suited and booted – a bit old fashioned but nothing out of the ordinary. Ginned up, the younger boys would say. A ginned up mac looking swell for such a miserable night. He’s lookin’ meaner than a bull dog on a short leash and with the slicked back hair and blue-as-the-ankh-if-the-ankh-were-clean stare he’s quite the force. Artists would kill for his profile.

I blow out a cloud of smoke as he sits.

‘Sam Vimes,’ I say. He nods. His stare is fixed and doing things to my gut I don’t rightly like. He could stare down a dragon and then some. Coulda used a man like him last month.

‘I’ve got a case for you,’ he says. He lays a file on my desk. I offer him a smoke but he says ‘I think not’. Never trust a man who freely turns down a Genuan long. Hand rolled, to boot.

‘What’s it on?’

‘It’s dirty –‘

‘M’not a clean man.’

‘No.’ He drawls it out and I’m thinkin’ he might mean something else by it but can’t guess what. ‘I heard you were the best.’

‘ _Am_ the best.’

‘To be sure.’

‘But I don’t do clean up.’ I point at him with the Genuan. His suit may be Quirmian cut but it’s Pseudoplian tailored. An international man, then. Ms Sybil said that you could tell a man by the cut of his suit. ‘Bogus’ll be your man. Or Bobbie.’

‘Bobbie?’ he hums. ‘Oh yes, Mr Downey. We’re acquainted. No, this isn’t their sort of business. In fact I rather think it’ll be dry for you. Run of the mill. Especially after the Wonse debacle.’

This mac is  _ginned up_ with that slick smile and Nobby would say that he prolly thinks he’s too cool for school and knows it. I don’t like him and even though Old Keel said to never go for gut feelings with a man like this, I can’t help it. He’s all clocks and gears. I could set my watch by his blinks. But it’s a case and to be honest, after Wonse and the Dragon cartel, I could use something more tame. The man continues.

‘My aunt has recently received a letter of some concern.’ He motions to the folder. ‘Feel free to read at your own leisure. I’ll relate the pertinent points for the sake of efficiency.

A few years ago there was a bit of a to-do.’ He sort of twitches his mouth. I assume it’s a smile. ‘Over a  _friend._ A  _male_ friend and there was a bit of jewellery involved, a young woman’s virtue (such as it was), a missing cache of opium and the crown jewels of Lancre. I won’t bore you with the details. It was a tawdry affair.

Anyway, certain details of this have recently resurfaced and are playing havoc with my aunt’s life. She’s all nerves and has taken to bed. Terrible business.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I want you to look into it. Rather, look into the gentleman who is writing the letters.’

Sweeping the folder over I open it to find a small profile in traditional Sto Helit ink. It’s brown, faded, and beginning to wear at the edges. The woman in the profile is glancing at the viewer, a rarity in such pictures, and her lips look like sin. I put it aside. Underneath it is the letter. Card stock instead of regular heavyweight writing paper. No watermark. Unique.

The letter opens, “Madame, I am your most humble servant…etc. etc. etc.” I skim and there is the demand, tucked between the third and fourth paragraph. ‘He’s asking for an ample sum of money.’ The man in black merely nods and looks perfunctory if a person could possibly manage it. ‘Why can’t she just pay the man off? I may hazard a guess to say that neither of you are short of the gold stuff.’

‘No,’ it’s drawled again. ‘But these things do tend to continue. And the bolder the requests become the more intolerable it is. Also, Mr Vimes, it’s not really a life is it? Always hanging under the shadow of the blackmailer. My aunt should not be subjected to it longer than strictly necessary.’

‘So you want me to look into this,’ I find the name slipping off the bottom of the page. ‘Mr Dragon, KA.’

‘Hm. Quite. You and dragons, it seems.’ Standing he brandishes his hand for a shake, ‘when you have gathered information please bring it directly to me. My card. Now, I must bid you good evening, sir. I won’t detain you any longer.’

When he leaves it’s akin to a weight being taken off a sheet. A mystery, that man. I find his card resting face up in my palm and it reads  _Havelock Vetinari_ and a discreet address on Welcome Soap. I sit back down and light another cigar and turn it over in my head. What sort of man gives you card that leaves you less informed than before? What sort of man dresses like he does, expensively but unnoticeably, and lives on Welcome Soap? I try to picture him next to haberdashers and butchers and other small tradesmen and can’t.

“Madame, I am your most humble servant…” all signed with a flourish of Mr Dragon, KA. Well, best start with the obvious. 


	2. Clever Bastards

The morning is a salty one. There’s heat and humidity hugging the city tighter than a dame’s bodice. The walls of my office are sweating like horses and I’m wondering who’s dumb enough to try and sting a man like Vetinari because it can be only either a very dumb man or a very brave one. And, like as not, balls don’t always equal smarts. So dumb and brave is the ticket. Unless he’s smart but acting dumb or is so good that he thinks he’ll get away with it? Or it’s a woman? Dame’s can be brazen and ballsy and are as cunning as a very cunning thing.

 

Ms Sybil brings in the morning rag and a cup of black.

‘I’m after a dragon,’ I tell her by ways of how-d’you-do. She’s a good girl and obliges.

‘You and dragons, Mr Sam Vimes.’

‘That’s what was said last night. It’s blackmail.’

‘A woman?’

I nod. ‘A lady by my guess. Had her nephew doing the leg work on it. Though I’ll be looking into him, too.’

Sybil nods. She’s blue this morning. Dress, shoes, hair piece – all sky over the plains blue. Her hair is in piles on top of her head and I spend a minute wondering how dames like her manage to be so well put together at seven in the morning. Sybil may be a good girl but she’s no  _good_ girl. Spat of illegal dragon egg trade a few years back was how we met. She says she’s given it up. I’ll believe her when the disc turns into a sphere.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Don’t rightly know. The nephew’s a Havelock Vetinari. Heard of him?’

She laughs. It sounds like she has two gins and half a flagon of whiskey when she does. It’s her ‘oh you know nothin’ Sam Vimes’ laugh.

‘Know him? Mister Vimes, I just want to shake the hand of the mac stupid enough to mess with him and his.’ She takes a few files out and tosses them across the desk. ‘We crossed paths a few times. Not a bad cove once you get to know him. Lots of swank, a real Agatean emperor, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.’

‘What’s his racket?’

Sybil gives a vague shrug so she’s going to be tight lipped. I just nod along because we have an agreement about pasts. Namely, we don’t talk about them. You sure as hell don’t come into this business clean.

She purses her lips and cocks her hips, ‘his aunt is named something funny. Roberta something. Foreign last name and I don’t think it’s hers. I think she’s had a husband or three. One of those sorts of dames.’

The files she gave me are blackmail cases and various Who’s Who with names starting with D, K, and A.

‘I thought you like those sorts of dames. Cigar?’

‘Mister Vimes, you know I don’t smoke before ten. Ask me in two hours. And I do, I’m just saying that she’s one of them.’

In one of the middle files is a reference to an old blackmail case. One of the minor nobles being stuck for a false coat of arms. The blackmailer slipped over ten grand before the city got too hot and the bastard shipped town with the nob’s daughter. Each letter was signed “the king of arms”. Well, it’s the loosest connection I’ve seen in a good while but this case seems to be all loose conenctions.

Standing, I stretch and tell Sybil I’m out for a smoke and a think. ‘Take names and cards but don’t let the bastards sit. I’ll call ‘em later on my own time. If Rust shows his ugly mug here again tell him straight that I don’t snoop on future daughter in laws. That ain’t my business who his son shacks up with. He’ll have to sort it out himself.’

‘Sure, Mister Vimes. And your five o’clock?’

‘I have a five o’clock?’

‘Yes, with a, oh, with Mr Vetinari.’

Clever bastard. ‘I don’t remember making an appointment with him.’

‘You didn’t.’ Her face goes a little amused. ‘He makes them with you. That’s how he works. Did he tell you that he won’t detain you?’

I take a drag on the cigar. ‘Might have said something like that.’

‘Oh good. He likes you, then.’

‘Oh  _jolly_ good. I’m out.’

 

I hat and coat up then go off into the steaming Ankh-Morpork morning. Some call Ankh-Morpork the underbelly of the Sto Plains. They say it’s like a sewer – eventually all the shit comes to the top.

Stopping at Mars’ Diner I grab a plate of eggs on toast and another coffee. Sitting at the bar I make an atmosphere and down the wreckage.

‘What’s new?’

Tom Mars stays open all day and night so hears things faster than anyone – even a dirty rag doesn’t pick up dirt like Mars. He’s a good guy though his son’s a bit wet. Sybil calls him a corner store white knight and I reckon she’s right. The boy slides in like greased wheels and puts a new pot of sludge on.

‘Bogus had O’Rielly bumped so I hear. Sapped him then the body went Ankh side.’

‘Oh?’

‘Over a piece of skirt no less.’ Mars doesn’t seem impressed with his story so he moves on. ‘New broad in town. Red silk broad. But old. So top guns with little birds to teach.’

‘How’s Rosie taking it?’

‘Nothing doing. I hear they’re old chums. The new gel was at her height when Rosie was still in nappies. Anyway, she owns a place on easy street. Opened some sort of  _academy.’_  

‘Music prob’bly. Tends to be music.’

‘You’d know better than me. Anyway, other than that it’s been temple mouse for a week.’

A thought strikes me and I motion Mars over. Fishing a pencil from my pocket I write out the name I’m after and pass it to him. He shakes his head.

‘No luck. Is it to do with Wonse?’

‘Nah, new case. Can you keep a look out for me?’

‘Sure. Oh,’ he looks at his son. ‘Hey, my lad’s a bit of a crooked horseshoe and doesn’t have two pennies to rub together but he’s all right and means no harm –‘

‘What do you want me to tell Captain Angua?’

‘I know you used to be a law man –‘

‘Sort of. They’d not claim me and I’d not claim them.’

He shrugs. Laymen don’t get it but it’s all right.

‘Can you just tell her that he’s a good lad though maybe unwise?’

‘Course, if you’d like.’ My stool scrapes back and I stand. ‘It’s no problem though I don’t promise anything.’

Mars agrees with a ‘sure, sure’ and gives me a coffee to go. His son watches with the sour expression of those guilty of petty crimes. 

 

 


	3. A Line of Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaken, not stirred.

The coffee and smell of putrid existence takes me down to the docks where the Watch is hauling a body out of the Ankh.

‘Detritus thinks it’s suicide,’ Captain Agua says as I wander over. We’ve got an understanding of jurisdictions though her other, Captain Carrot, isn’t keen on my poking my nose in on what he deems _police matters._

‘Bull,’ I blow smoke out.

‘Probably. Probably got in the way of an arrow. One of those nice soft ones.’ She fishes a flask out of a pocket and takes a swig. Angua’s been a copper as long as the Ankh’s been flowing and she drinks like a drowning fish when there’s a case like this. The body’s rolled face up once it’s on dry land and we see it’s a girl. Mars didn’t say that Bogus bumped a girl but these do happen. Dames at the wrong place, wrong time. Dames getting into risky business. Though Sybil says they keep a better head in business than most men.

‘Doesn’t look like suicide to me,’ the medical officer says. Her name is Cheery but she’s just known as Inspector for the most part. ‘Unless she committed suicide by whacking herself in the back of her head with a blunt object.’

‘A red silk girl?’ Angua asks, prowling over. ‘Or just an innocent?’

‘Can’t tell right now.’

I snub out my cigar and follow. The girl’s dressed which is more than I can say for most bodies pulled out of the old Stink. Johnny Keel said half the clothes dissolved off bodies like as not. Those not stolen, that is. Her feet are rough. If she was a red silk seamstress then she was a streetwalker. Not one of Rosie’s girls, then. I wonder if the new seamstress on Easy Street is missing a girl.

‘What case are you on?’ Angua turns back and is looking grim.

‘Can’t say.’

‘Mister Vimes. If it’s,’ she trails off.

‘Look, you know me. I toe the line.’ She offers her flask and I wave it off. ‘No matter what your Captain Carrot thinks, I toe it.’

‘Who you workin’ for now?’

‘Just doing this and that. Small cases here and there.’

She sniffs. The dame can smell trouble two miles off. She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me and so I wave off before she asks anything more. 

 

 

I track my way north to Easy street. I take round about side roads and pass through Cheap street and Mincing street coming to the top of Welcome Soap and walk down it to Easy. I spot the address Vetinari gave me on the card and find, as I suspected, a blank, unnoticeable building that could be a home, could be a shop, could be nothing in particular so naturally it must be something particular. It had the air of trying to be unnoticeable and it had a lot of practice. I tuck myself into an alley opposite and watch it for ten minutes. I’m about to move on when the door opens and out steps Downey followed by a rather mousey looking fellow. The mousey fellow stays close to the door and finishes business with the assassin before he moves off back north towards Heroes or Filigree. The mousey brown chap ducks back into the building. Judging by his suit and colours and glasses I put him as a secretary of some sort. I move on.

It’s getting to be past noon when I come to the new academy on Easy street and it is, indeed, for music. Music lessons with specialities in flute and upright bass. Unoriginal but the point is clear enough. I cross over and let myself in.

A woman is sitting at a small oak desk and filling out a ledger. She looks up and puts a smile on her face.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Here for a lesson?’ The book is flipped a few pages back. I suspect she wasn’t keen on my seeing what she had been writing.

‘Not quite. I’ve got an appointment with your main lady. Madame.’ It was a leap but a good one when her face changed. The girl was make-uped too much and seemed to be putting on airs she didn’t have.

‘Madam doesn’t take appointments.’

‘Tell her she’ll take this one.’

‘She doesn’t take orders. You a copper? You got brass to prove it?’

‘No,’ I glance around the room. It was genteel in what I think is known as “regency fashion” despite our being without a king for as long as anyone can remember. ‘Look, play nice and everything’ll be jake, all right? Tell Madam, or Madame, however she wants to be called, that I’d like to see her. That her nephew sent me around.’

This garnered even more of an expression – though what of I’m not sure. She stood and went through a curtain to another room. I took the spare minutes to pad about and inspect the place. It’s swanky, posh, in a way Rosie’s isn’t. Her girls, the one’s on let, would be courtesans then. Not your one nighters. And the one’s not on let would be training.

She returns with painted lips in a practiced pout.

‘Madam wants a name, sir.’

‘Vimes.’

‘A full name would be easier, sir.’

I consider this then add ‘Sam Vimes.’

She thinks on this before asking, ‘shaken or stirred?’

‘What?’

‘Your martini. Madam is having her afternoon drink. She wants to know if you take it shaken or stirred.’

‘Shaken.’

Her face tells me this is the wrong answer but she’s gone before I can change it. When she comes back into the room she holds the curtain back and motions me through. I’m told that it’s down the hall on the left. The well appointed room with the sun.

 

 

Madam is sitting, no, lounging when I enter the room. She’s a woman with a lot of class and grey hair in a neat pin up that could envy Ms Sybil’s. When I got closer I see she’s not a woman with class but a woman with grace. Fancy. Posh-like. She has eyes that could kill and a mouth to make it sweet.

‘Mr Vimes, have a seat. Elsie, drinks.’

The drab blond from the front brings the glasses over. The martinis are dry and I see Madam takes them with extra olives.

‘Now, what could a gentleman like yourself be doing here? Besides the obvious.’

‘The obvious?’

Her eyes flick around the room and she smiles. She could out smirk a viper. I can see a bit of her nephew in her. Around the eyes and something about the cheekbones and chin.

‘Don’t play coy. We’re both busy people, Mr Vimes. Now, Havelock told me that you’re a man for a discreet job. Drink up dear, I haven’t poisoned them.’ She hums. ‘Though that bottle of whiskey Lord Venturi sent could well be poison. Tell me, Sam, may I call you Sam?’ She’s leaning forward as she says this and her gown is too loose.

‘I prefer Vimes if it’s all the same to you.’

She pats my hand.

‘Vimes it is, then. You’ll warm up to me. Havelock said he liked you and I trust his judgement. My name’s Lady Roberta Meserole, friends call me Bobbie, you may call me Madam.’

The line was as practiced as her smiles and I decide that I like her for it. She sets her drink aside and rearranges herself and it was an art form to watch. The woman could ensare kings if she wanted to. Mars said she was old but I fathom she couldn’t be more than fifty.

‘The letter,’ I say in lieu of being crass and asking her age. ‘Do you have an idea who might have sent it.’

‘I thought that’s what Havel was paying you the big money for.’

Havel. I tuck it away. She notices and her smile is real.

‘Rosie, that is Ms Palm, seems to be friendly with you.’ I fidget. I want a smoke and she won’t stop staring or leaning slightly forward. Her dressing down is Agatean brocade. It’s red silk and gold thread.

‘She and I are old chums. She was around earlier for a good chin wag.’

‘Was she?’

‘Oh yes. Catching up on old times. Is Havelock having you look into anyone else?’ It’s a throwaway question and she’s reaching for a cigarette case. She offers one and I take it. I was taught that it was rude to refuse a lady. Even if the lady might not quite be a _lady._

‘No, just this little letter business of yours.’

She purses her lips and finally leans back. It doesn’t improve anything. _Seamstresses._

‘You don’t beat about the bush.’

‘Apologies for my manners. They’re atrocious. I grieve over them on long winter nights.’ I pull the letter out of my coat pocket and pass it over. She is familiar with it and only blows out a long line of smoke in response. Cool facades run in the family I can see. ‘So you’re not going to be helpful.’

Another line of smoke. She sips her martini. ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘It’s more that I can’t be helpful. I’m new to this town and just a woman.’

“Just a woman” is a phrase I have long learned to watch out for.

‘But I heard Havelock mention such and such a place. Darling, be a dear and light me. It’s gone out.’ She leans forward again. Gold _and_ silver thread I can see. Sybil had said that Vetinari was swank. Lettuce oozing from the gills but gods his aunt must bathe in the stuff. I pull out my matches and light her cigarette. She leans back again with a sigh from the gods. ‘That’s better.’

‘The place your nephew mentioned?’

‘Oh yes,’ she hums over it and reaches for a small purse at the end of her couch. ‘He’s a dear and is minding some of my business for me. I’ve never had a head for it, you know.’ She rummages.

I remember now what Vetinari had said. That his aunt was all nerves about the letter. I take in the woman before me and I’m willing to bet my last good dollar that this woman has never suffered from nerves in her life. She pulls out a small note pad. It has one of those fancy monogramed covers. I can see a half covered name and a ‘from HV’ and guess that her nephew must have bought it for her. Swank doesn’t cover half of it.

She jots a note with cigarette in careless fingers. She ashes in the empty martini glass.

‘Brandy?’ She asks.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Shame. Elsie.’ A drink appears at her elbow. ‘Here, this is the place he mentioned the other night. Said some business is being done there tonight so take a gander if I were you. Stretch those long legs of yours, it'll do both of us good.' Her look is the definition of sinful suggestion.

 

We part ways on amiable terms. As I drum myself back down to the shades I think that the longer I spent in her company the closer the resemblance I saw between her and her nephew. A brief gander down that lane and I was wondering if maybe she wasn’t so much an aunt as a mother. But Vetinari couldn’t be any older than myself and I’m hitting just past forty. It doesn’t hold so I let it go. The day is dying. The Ankh is reeking. I decide to head back and see if Sybil has any news for me and to meet the nephew a second time. I wonder if knowing you’re about to see him lessens the effect at all. I think that I doubt it. Macs like that know their game and play it well. 


	4. Chasing the wind (the wild wind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahah...ha

Sybil is pouring a brandy when I crash back into the office. She’s perched at the edge of her desk with legs crossed and a coy look.

‘Banging in at the wrong time as always Mr Vimes. You don’t see the brandy.’

‘Course I do. Give me a glass. I just had my guts inspected by a viper with a pair legs of a goddess.’ I drink the dram. Sybil pours another because she is heaven sent. ‘Gods that family _and_ there’s only two of them!’

‘You’ve an hour. Change your shirt.’

‘My shirt’s fine. You’re my secretary, not my wife.’

‘And since you don’t have a wife, and certainly won’t be getting one in your state, it falls to me to tell you when to change your shirts. There’s a spare in back.’

I hobble into the file room and find a crisp white on a hanger and pull my day old off. It ends up on top of a pile of month old filing and I emerge feeling a little more human.

‘You’re sassy,’ I grumble. ‘How’d you get the spare?’

She looks tart and puts the brandy away. She cleans off my desk and I watch and wait.

‘I broke into your apartment,’ she says at last. She doesn’t bother to look apologetic about it. ‘Speaking of things I need to tell you. I made a list, it’s on your table. Things to do once this case is over and you have two minutes to breed together to make three or four. Laundry, dishes,’ she’s counting off her fingers with hips at that angle they go to when she’s about ready for war. ‘A good sweep, mop, _and_ dusting. You’re a slob Sam Vimes.’

‘I’m chaotically organised.’

‘A snarky slob.’

Settling into my chair I wave it off. Sybil can drive a point home harder than a dwarf going for gold. She’s famous for it. She looks me over and apparently I meet approval for seeing clients in “a vaguely human state” since she saunters back to her desk and props glasses on her nose.

‘How’re the dragons doing?’ I ask idly. She doesn’t glance up. ‘I hear prices have doubled…’

‘I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Course not.’

She looks over her glasses and pulls a face. What a dame she can be when she wants to.

‘May I remind you that it’s illegal to withhold information about crimes committed from the police. I believe that makes you an accessory.’

‘Ah, the closest thing to admission I’ve ever gotten.’

‘Mr Vimes.’

‘Ms Sybil.’

‘Take yourself for a walk.’

I laugh and sit back. ‘A good deal politer than I expected.’

‘I’m a lady. I don’t damn well swear.’

 

 

The swanky mac arrives precisely at five. I contemplate keeping him waiting but decide against it. He doesn’t seem the sort to play with. At least not in that way. Madam’s note is propped against some books displaying the name of a small dive wharf side of Monkey street. I’d heard of it here and there and had plans on making a closer acquaintance later this night.

Vetinari seats himself and looks at me expectantly. He dead pans facial expressions if such a thing makes sense.

‘I hear you made the acquaintance of my aunt.’ He begins without preamble. Well, well, the man’s quick to a point. I take my time and offer him a smoke which he declines. For a second time. Sybil hollers an offer for a drink and he seems amused. He declines this as well.

‘I did. Swell lady.’

‘Indeed.’ He waits. I wait. Sybil snorts into her G&T. I can see her out of the corner of my eye watching us like a cat.

‘Didn’t seem someone suffering from nerves.’

‘She’s very subtle about it.’

‘Indeed.’

We wait. Vetinari folds his hands and settles them on his knee. He’s still a wall of black though I suspect it’s a different suite. This sort of man can afford a suite a day for an entire year if he wanted to.

I decide that I have better things to do than stare at him all day and relent.

‘There’s precious little to go on so I decided to see if she had any information.’

‘Did she?’

‘A name of a dive.’

He inclines is head and I’m wondering why I’m telling him this. I tend to keep clients in the dark for as long as possible, less of a chance of their sticking their mugs into the business and cocking it up.

‘An opium den,’ he says after a minute of thought.

‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t play coy. You don’t have the face for it.’

‘Oh?’

He smirks and tilts his head to the side. It’s a cat like movement. Precise. Nobby says cats kill for pleasure since most are well fed and taken care of. He says it’s their natural instincts taking over. I replied, So when they see something helpless they just have to kill it? Is that the way it is?

For some reason I tell this to the cove sitting there watching me and doing dissecting things with his eyes.

‘And it’s always the songbirds,’ he adds. ‘My aunt is very fond of cats.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Not particularly.’

He sighs and unfolds himself from the chair. I think that he’s a tall man but you don’t notice it till he’s suddenly looming over you and being very intent. I tell him he’s a bit intense of a guy.

‘So I hear.’

‘You ever thought of lightening up?’

‘You really don’t have manners, do you?’

‘I already had that conversation with your aunt.’ For emphasis I blow smoke out and up at him. He just smiles through it.

‘Very good, Mr Vimes. I won’t detain you. Ms Ramkin.’

After the door closes Sybil begins laughing.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Oh nothing, Mr Vimes. Nothing at all just that he thinks you’re great. Damn fantastic I’d say.’

Snarling I stand, ‘well he can take his jack-a-lantern smirk and shove it quay side. Damn character. I’m going dockside. Have a dragon to tail.’

Sybil waves me off and it’s raining when I step outside. Swell. Just swell.

 

 

The Devil’s Drum is an opium den on the corner of Monkey and Rime and it’s reeking of the stuff before you step down hellward. Inside there are couches, red eyed, wet eared duds laying still with faraway looks on their faces. The stuff comes in from Agatea and is better than gold, at least by city standards. Men like Vetinari may like the shiny stuff but the average Joe hardly sees a copper penny let alone a solid dime or dollar so this is more real than anything else.

A server finds me loitering by the umbrellas and week old coats that haven’t left pegs and takes my hat. She’s a sweet looking thing, though a bit foreign about the edges. Her accent is hard to place as she asks for my business.

‘Here to smoke?’

‘Nah, more on the business side of it.’

‘You have appointment?’

‘Now I do.’

She scowls but jolts herself to the back of the room and through a curtain of beads. The nice ones, wood from Klatch and the high mountains of Uberwald. The stuff rich coves have. There’s always money whenever opium rears its head.

She returns with a dour look.

‘Mr Dragon says he needs name.’

‘John Keel.’ As good a name as any and no one from these parts much remembers him.

‘Yes, sir. Just wait please.’

‘Sure. I’m in no rush. Maybe a glass of water?’

She nods and scuttles off again. I grab the first spare chair and let my eyes take a gander about the room. A lot of red, but soft red. And some greys and blacks and deep blues. Soothing colours that make a sort of haze. The couches are real silk and not horsehair so this place is _real_ money.

‘Mr Dragon asks what business you have.’

‘Tell him it’s solid business. That I don’t want anyone else to hear it. Broad or cove or anything else.’

Another minute passes and she returns and motions for me to follow. The room is longer than it first appears and layered with customers. Some appear to have been here for a few weeks, others are newly arrived. I recognise one or two faces but the rest are nameless.

Mr Dragon’s office is in the back of the building and lines with silk. Red silk on red on purple. It’s flashy. Too flashy. I decide he’s hiding something.

The man himself isn’t very much of a man. The remnants of one several hundred years old. It may be all the rage to be allowing in vampires and other assorted undeads into the city but I don’t hold with it. We have enough problems with humans. 

Mr Dragon is pale and refined and is sitting with his back to me. I’m tired of being high hatted so I introduce myself before the girl can.

‘Mr Keel at your service.’ I take a seat. Mr Dragon turns around and stares for a moment before smiling. It’s a horrible sight.

‘Mr Dragon at yours. My girl says you have business for me.’

‘Yeah-‘

‘Please don’t say ‘yeah’. It’s common.’

‘Yeah well, I’m common.’ Maybe it was too much too soon but at this point I don’t care. ‘I hear you got a bit of a racket going – bees and wasps sort of thing. Sting here, a tap there.’

‘Go on.’ He folds his hands. They’re long and thin, like Vetinari’s, but not nearly as nice.

‘I might have something for you.’

He takes out a notebook all nice and slow.

‘It’s a dame.’ I suck on my teeth pretending I’m remembering information. ‘A broad more the like. She’s something big.’

‘Name?’

‘Now before I give you anything I want terms.’

The girl is shifting by the door. Mr Dragon flicks his hand and she is through it faster than a kid through a candy shop.

‘My dear man, I can’t give you terms if I don’t know the dame.’

I shake my head. ‘Sure you can. Fifty fifty I say. She’s loaded. Lettuce feathered pillows, sleeps in sheets of gold.’

‘Forty sixty.’

‘Sixty for me?’

He laughs. It’s not pleasant.

‘Aha…ha sixty for _me._ I’m the one doing the hard work.’

‘Forty five fifty five.’

‘Ahaha, Mr Keel, you bargain too hard. Forty is the best you’re going to get no matter who you’re bringing it to.’

I think this over before reluctantly agreeing. I’m given another unpleasant smile. He pats his notebook and the shadows around him seem to change. I’m soon betting my shirt that there are wings back there. ‘Good decision, Mr Keel. Wouldn’t want to have to keel haul the offer. Haha…ha.’

Gods. A punning deader. Even better.

‘Right. So it’s a Ms Ramkin. Sybil Ramkin, father is Lord Ramkin and on his last leg. She does a spot of gambling. Nothing big but the father stakes a lot in the family name and the reputation of his daughter.’ Tonight, I think, I’m going to pray that Sybil doesn’t take a hatchet to me for this. ‘So she’d be willing to pay to keep things under wraps.’

‘The Ramkins?’ He ponders this. Makes a few more notes. ‘They’re loaded. Yes. Very good. I’ll draught a proposal. Why don’t you come around tomorrow to read it over? Since you seem to know the situation so well.’

‘Sure thing, kid.’ I will admit that I felt pleased with his ill surpressed flinch. ‘Same time?’

‘Ah, no. Haha…I have business. How about nine?’

‘Nine it is.’

We stand and shake hands. The girl is back by the door again when the creature’s voice slinks over to me from his desk.

‘You know why they call it chasing the red dragon?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because when you smoke it you feel as if it could go on forever yet that it’s going to end immediately. So the longer it lasts the higher you feel because you know it could end, that it could stop any minute now, but it doesn’t. It just lasts and lasts until…haha…and when it’s over you think it could have been better, you could have flown higher if only you ever caught that red dragon. It’s a bit like living, Mr Keel. A bit like living.’ 


	5. Menthols and Chocolate Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who reads my writing knows too much about my half-assed hangover cures.

The rain is receding to a drizzle when I manage to stagger into my rooms. They’re small but functional and better than what you can usually hope for on a PI’s salary (which is unreliable at best). I find Sybil’s note pinned to the table with a Klatchian knife. It’s written in ink with several words underlined forcibly. It’s a note that means business. I ignore it and pour myself a double Scotch. This does nothing so I pour myself another. I light a cigar and stand next to the window in the kitchenette and watch fog bump itself against buildings, through streets.

I read once that this city is beautiful in the way a battlefield is beautiful. I think the poet said it was ballistic, brutal, filthy beauty. It’s one of those nights and I’m in one of those moods; feeling itchy and tired and under-washed. Turning back to the room I put a pot of water on for pasta but change my mind and turn it off. The case is sitting awkward and ill fitting in the back of my mind.

So Mr. Dragon is blackmailing that dame of an aunt. Blackmailing her over an unfortunately timed affaire and a political gaff in Genua. Something about a Duke, or was it a Baron, being bumped off. And somehow Lancre is involved.

My bookshelf is in the same state of the rest of my apartment which is to say, Hellish. I fish till I find an atlas and open it up to Genua. The lines and boundaries tell me nothing so I move on to Lancre. A tiny blink-and-you-miss-it dot in the middle of the mountains near the hub. It’s too clean.

I say this out loud. ‘It’s too clean.’ I sniff myself and decide that a bath might be in order.

Vetinari is a cagey mac and holds things close to his chest. It’s a fair bet his aunt is the same though to look at her you’d think not. The bath does nothing for the case but it reminds me that I’m hungry so I make toast and eat it while fishing through the evening rag. The night closes as curl up  around a pile of dirty clothes on my bed.

 

 

It’s early by most standards when I knock on Madam’s door. A different girl from before answers. This one is black haired, black eyed, red lipped and looking a little haggard.

‘We’re not open. There’s a sign.’ She begins to close the door and I catch it with my foot.

‘I need to see your Madam.’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘I doubt that.’

She scowls but steps back and ushers me into the waiting room. There is a gentleman passed out on one of the couches. He has his hat lowered over his face and waistcoat undone. There is a clear wine stain down his right arm and his boots are gone.

I lift up the hat and find myself staring at the face of Lord Venturi. He grumbled. Snorted. Tried to roll over but gave up after one jerk of his body. I put his hat back on his face and returned to the desk to wait.

The black haired girl is back. She says, ‘You’ll have to wait, sir. Madam is getting dressed.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘And she hasn’t had her morning drink yet.’

‘Coffee?’

The girl smiles. ‘Oh yes. With kippers.’

I can’t think of what to say so I smile. She smiles back but her makeup isn’t hiding the bags under the eyes. After a moment she seems to notice Venturi and her face becomes one of evident routine amusement.

‘He brought Madam tulips and a bottle of brandy.’ She explains. ‘Madam didn’t know what to make of it so got him drunk and had him put to bed in the parlour.’

‘Seems like a good plan. Need help shifting him?’

The girl shifts her hips back and forth before nodding. She tightens her robes and walks over to the sleeping cove.

‘M’lord.’ She nudges his shoulder. ‘M’lord?’

I walk over and take the hat off his face and give him a real shake. He starts awake and sputters something.

‘Washn’t sleeping.’

‘No, m’lord.’ The girl smiles. She leans over and pats the side of his cheek. I notice that it’s the same lean Madam does. The robes are just as loose. Venturi notices this two.

‘What hour is it, Mina?’

‘Early, m’lord. Half seven.’

‘Gods.’ He tries to stagger up and promptly sags back into the couch. ‘Any chance you have anything? Coffee? Strong tea?’

‘Yes, m’lord. I’ll fetch you a coffee. Mr…’ she looks at me and frowns.

‘Vimes.’

‘Mr. Vimes would you like one while you wait?’

‘Why not. Let’s make it a party.’

She nods and heads into the back. I can hear an exchange of voices, one of them clearly Madam’s. Venturi blinks soggily and swallows.

‘I feel like death warmed up.’ He mumbles. It’s said more to the carpet than to me.

‘Coffee’ll help.’

‘Gods.’ He sighs. ‘Any chance you have something stronger on you?’ Again, asked to the carpet. The intricate weave is silent in return. I let a minute pass before taking pity and fishing out a flask from my coat.

‘Brandy. Can’t vouch for its quality.’

He shrugs and takes a swig. Wiping his mouth with the wine stained shirtsleeve he looks up at me and blinks.

‘You a copper?’ He asks. He shifts. It is the shift of the mildly guilty.

‘Nah. Private.’

‘Oh.’ He hiccups. ‘Good.’ Some well trained mechanism in his head is still working as he sloppily holds a hand out. ‘Lord Winthrop Venturi.’

‘Sam Vimes.’

‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’

The girl, Mina, returns with coffee and toast. Lord Venturi, unfortunately named Winthrop, blesses all the gods and dives for the drink. Mina nods and gives him a peck on the cheek.

‘You should get on home, m’lord. Before Anne knows you were out till day break.’

‘Bah my wife.’ He waves woozily. ‘There was another chap here last night. He get home all right?’

‘I should think so, m’lord.’

She sits beside him and feeds him a piece of toast.

Lord Venturi chews philosophically. He’s not a big man. Rather unimpressive in size – average in all ways. But well dressed as only a rich cove can be. It’s careless and well practiced. He sips his coffee.

‘I haven’t seen Caroline recently.’

Mina tenses. It’s minute. I’m willing to bet she’s one of Madam’s more reliable girls. ‘Caroline’s been ill.’ She covers it well. With a sweet smile and a half-flask pulled out from her robes.

Deciding to try my luck I ask, ‘Caroline? Young dame? Brown hair in a bob? New?’

Mina shrugs which for her I think is an admission.

‘Yes. She’s been in a bad way.’

‘A bad way.’

Lord Venturi looks between us and is a little confused. He sips his coffee. I think he feels that he’s too hung over for this.

‘Yes. Ill.’ She pours us both another cup. ‘I’ll go check on Madam.’ She leaves with a swing of her hips, knowing full well that Lord Venturi’s gaze followed her out of the room and then some.

‘Swell girl,’ he mutters once she’s gone. ‘Swell, swell girl. Doesn’t like me though.’ He sips his coffee. Adds another dram of whatever it is in Mina’s flask. ‘I brought her a necklace last week. A nice one, simple. She said she liked simple jewellery.  Elegant she said. So I bought her elegant.’ He sighs. ‘She doesn’t wear it.’

I cough and look polite. Confessions are always uncomfortable. Especially when coming from a man twelve times my social superior. This is compounded by the look of hope he gives me. As if I would have an answer.

‘Not sure drunkenly camping out on a sofa is the way to get her.’

His expression becomes morose. ‘I did come to see Caroline. She said she might be able to help. I mean, I play by the rules. I do what’s expected of a chap. But then Caroline wasn’t here and it’s just Mina who was being _nice._ ’ Lord Venturi is a wreck and looking like he won’t be able to get himself anywhere anytime soon. Mina ducks back into the room and gives him a pitying look.

‘She’ll see you now.’

‘She likes to high hat people, doesn’t she.’

Mina just shrugs. She pours Venturi another cup and shoves a piece of toast into his hand.

‘He needs a plate of eggs with a side of grease but we don’t serve that here.’ She explains as she leads me down the hall. ‘The best we can get is black toast with lots of butter.’

‘It’ll hold him,’ I say non-committedly. ‘And where is Caroline?’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ She turns and peers. ‘To find Caroline?’

‘So she is missing.’

Her pout is pretty. She jerks her thumb towards the main room. ‘Madam’s in there.’

‘When did you last see your friend?’

‘She wasn’t my friend.’

I nod. Sure, sure, girl. Sure, sure.

 

 

Madam is smoking a menthol and drinking a glass of chocolate milk. It’s in a martini glass but it’s not loaded. She smiles brightly at me and motions to a chair.

‘A pleasure to see you so soon, Mr Vimes.’

‘I found your man.’ I shove Mr Dragon’s card under her nose. ‘But then, you always knew it was him. I also found your girl.’

‘My girl?’

‘Caroline. One of your girls.’

Madam very carefully unfolded and refolded her legs. She takes a long drag and waits.

‘Well, a fisherman shade-side found her.’

‘You do arrive at the point quickly.’

‘I’m assuming your nephew also knows who the man, _creature,_ is.’

‘There is very little that my nephew does not know. But that’s not why you’re here.’

There’s no right way to tell a dame that I’m damn well not here to see her any longer. I already had the information I wanted and this was just time wasting. She motions for a drink to be brought over.

‘Rough night, Mr Vimes?’

‘Not as bad as yours. Judging from that half-comatose lordling in your parlour.’

‘Oh? Winthrop? He’s just being an old fool.’

‘No fool like one of those.’

She cheers and smiles over the rim of her glass. Here is possibly the only broad on the disc who could get away with drinking chocolate milk out of a martini glass. She seems to sense my thoughts and the smile broadens.

‘We’re new here, as you know. We have yet to get a full set of glassware. I want only the best so Genuan. Havelock is having a set shipped in. Bless the boy.’

‘How long did Caroline work for you?’

The woman dips her head and consults the hem of her gown.

‘Maybe a month. She was new and I was training her.’ She sighs. ‘Shame what happened.’

‘The Watch hasn’t released the details.’

‘Come, Mr Vimes. You’re a smart man. Don’t play coy.’

‘I’ve been told I don’t have the face for it.’

Her dipped head looks back up with an amused expression. ‘Oh, you don’t,’ she murmurs. ‘Has Havelock been around again?’

‘Last night.’

‘If he’s annoying just tell him to take himself off.’

I shift and watch as a glass of chocolate milk appears at my elbow. Madam motions for me to drink. She says that it’s the best cure she knows for cottonmouth and a shaky hand.  She says I look like I could use one.

‘That Lord in your parlour could as well.’

‘He’s a dear, once you get to know him.’

‘Venturi?’

She laughs. ‘Oh yes, I suppose. I was speaking of my difficult nephew. He’s particular. Has his ways but they seem to work so I don’t ask too many questions.’ A pointed look as she takes a drag of the menthol. The look says that a mac like me shouldn’t ask too many either.

‘What does he actually want me to do?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

I tell her I don’t believe her. I sip the chocolate milk. She laughs at my manners. She goes on and says that everything about me could be described as “badly” and _of course_ Havelock would drag someone like me in on a case like this.  I’m not sure how to take this so I light a cigar.

‘Did you visit the Devil’s Drum last night?’ She asks softly. Seemingly uninterested in the answer she lights another menthol.

‘Passed by.’ I watch her nod.

‘He’s an interesting…person. Mr Dragon.’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Of course. Well, Mr Vimes, the day is not getting any younger. I will see you out.’

She led me through the hall and back into the parlour. I see that Venturi has picked himself up enough to stand. He is drooping by the door and nods when I approach.

‘Ah, you’re the mac I saw earlier.’ He winces when Mina opens the door. It appears that he’s seeing me for the first time as the disdain becomes more obvious. ‘What’s a cove like you doing here?’

‘Business, Venturi.’ My own head isn’t doing too well and I’m not in the mood to deal with hung over nobs getting their posh airs back. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’

He waves it off. Says he’s a man so what can you expect? Mina pats his arm and tells him to get home safe. That they really should call a cab but he waves her off.

‘No need, I’ll lurch. This chap here looks rough enough to keep me safe.’ He looks at me again. ‘Walk me home and I’ll find a few bob for you.’

My hat is on my head and I’m snubbing out the end of my cigar on the stoop.

‘I don’t stooge for nobs. Hire your own man for that, my lord. Good day.’ I walk out and for once it’s sunny.

 

 

For lunch I decide I should take myself to the shades. I stroll along and find the Devil’s Drum. Settling into an discreet bit on the docks and pull out the day’s rag and take to reading. Half an hour passes and the door opens. A small, twitchy man exits and I recognize Bogus jamming hat on head and ducking down a side alley. Nothing for another quarter hour. A few broads but nothing concrete. Ten minutes pass and I spot Ms Sybil as she walks by. Five minutes and she walks by again from the opposite direction. She pauses then goes down an alley. I wait. Eventually I feel a familiar hard tap on my shoulder.

‘You’re blackmailing me?’ She hisses while apparently adjusting her heels.

‘Just want a way in.’ I reply. ‘He’s sent something already?’

‘Yes. This morning. Was he supposed to wait.’

‘Yes.’ I turn a page of the rag. She straights and adjusts her hat and the veil. Today she’s a soft violet. I tell her the colour’s a nice one. I’ve been seeing too much red and black.

‘It’s the crowd you associate with,’ she sniffs. ‘They work on clichés.’

‘Don’t go in.’

‘I’m not. Not yet, at least.’

‘How much is has asking?’

‘Ten grand.’

I turn another page to hide my curse. She’s now plowing through her purse eventually emerging with a powder kit.

‘I’ll see you back at the office?’ She dabs her nose and forehead.

‘Later. Yes.’

Nodding she closes her bag, swirls her skirts and storms back up the street.

 

 

I wait for another half hour when the door opens again. This time a haggard looking man is tossed out and the dame for the previous night gives him a dirty look. I hear something about “clearing credit” and “till then none for you”. The man staggers to his feet and limps off southward. I give him a minute head start before turning and tailing after him.

He slowly ambles down Rime till he comes to one of the nameless alleys near the Pearl dock and turns down them. I don’t much care for the Shades as a rule since it smells a little too much like my past but sometimes it’s a necessary place to prowl. The man looks a bit like a ferret and is wearing a suite that might have once been swank but now is more dirt and patches than anything else. He stops in front of a nameless bar after a moment of indecision he oozes down the side of the building till he comes to a door. There is a knock of four raps and it opens to see the grave face of Breccia, one of Chrysoprase’s boys. The troll gives the man a once over before stepping back and letting him in.

Following a few minutes later I’m led into a small bar. Breccia dumps me with the bartender and lumbers back to his post. The lights are dim but not as dark as the Devil’s Drum. This is one of the old dens from when it was more _illegal_ and less an acknowledged, allowed illegality like inhumation and arranged theft. I scan the crowd and find only the familiar faces of men who drink to live and live to drink. There is a small door towards the back that I make for. I knock and it’s opened by the slight, mousey looking man from Vetinari’s address the other day. He peers at me over his glasses before stepping back.

‘What can I do for you?’ He asks as he settles back down behind a small desk.

‘I’m here to see the man in charge.’

He considers this then nods.

‘Of course. He mentioned you might be coming by.’

‘Did he?’ I frown.

‘Oh yes. One moment, I’ll let him know you’re here.’

‘Mr –‘

‘Vimes. Yes. Rufus Drumknott at your service. I won’t be a moment.’ He waves into a chair before disappearing off down a hallway. The room was softer than Dragon’s. More wood, and it was soft and worn with a comfortable feeling to it. The room wasn’t trying to be what it was in the way if the Devil’s Drum. I wait for a few minutes before Drumknott returns and flicks his wrist. I stand and follow him to a back office. Sitting, with feet propped up on the desk and daily rag opened to the crossword section, was Vetinari. He lowered the paper and gave something that might have been a sliver of a smile.

‘Ah, Vimes. Good of you to come.’ 


	6. To Bes Pelargic and Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vetinari is a cagey bastard.

Vetinari sinks back into his chair. His office is swank but in an understated way. Which means he’s either New Money but with the rare addition of taste or Old Money that doesn’t need anyone to know it’s Old Money. I watch him and can’t decide. He motions to a chair and a drink appears at my elbow. Leaning forward he slides a pack of matches across the clean surface. I think it’s an offer of something but I can’t read what. I decide to take him up on it regardless and light a cigar.

‘What do you know of the history of Opium?’ He asks when he’s ready.

I confess that I’m a plain sort of man. He takes this how he wants. Vetinari is a close man and that’s an understatement. He’s watching me as I take a sip of the brandy. Good stuff. I tell him so.

‘Comes from Agatea, doesn’t it? Opium that is.’

‘Yes,’ he murmurs it all soft and gentle. Like a viper. ‘It’s a complicated story. I’d offer you some tea as well, but it’s old.’

I wave and blow out a line of smoke. He smiles over laced fingers.

‘Opium was originally grown near Whale Bay. Later the Brindisians took it upon themselves to perfect the cultivation of the flower. For them it’s a religious symbol. For the Agateans, as for us, it’s more pleasure related. At one point the Agatean Empire began to import it.’

‘Didn’t we sell it to them during Pax Morkporkia?’

‘Hm, yes and no. We encouraged the use of it. But I’ll return to that. The Agateans began importing it long ago. Before we the Pax, before we had kings even. Back when we were still mucking about in muck. At that time they ate it, or drank it on occasion. They didn’t start smoking it until they began to import tobacco from the Sto Plains.  And it’s more potent when eaten than smoked.

‘It was originally used for medicinal purposes rather than pleasure – as most things are. It was used for dysentery, arthritis, diabetes, coughs and so on. They ground it, boiled it, honeyed it, and gingered it. If they were feeling exciting they would mix it with ginseng or liquorish.’ He pauses. Contemplates something in my face and the originally slim smile widens. A part of me feels like I ought to be staring over his shoulder at the wall behind him so I do. He resumes his lecture.

‘You follow the point. Opium was a luxury good. A thing done to pass the time and, apparently, improve sex. Though, I’ve never heard any solid proof of this being true.’

‘I thought it was a thing degenerates did. Men like – ‘ I motion to the room down the hall.

‘Later, Vimes. First they learn to smoke it. They mix tobacco with opium and use intricate glass pipes. They’re quite beautiful.’ Another pause as he stands and crosses the room to a wooden side board. A moment of rummaging produces a slim pipe of marbled glass and silver. It’s passed over so I silently admire the work. I’ve seen ones like this – but usually in museums or in the hands of men like Lord Venturi. ‘That’s an early model. The smoking made it a past-time of connoisseurs, professionals, and as always, the rich.’

I hand the pipe back, ‘but what the rich do the poor emulate.’

His hands are spread, he nods, ‘Precisely.’ A dame would kill for his hands. If he wasn’t such a slicked up mac I’m sure he’d have hissed his reply. In pleasure.

‘It became a scourge and Ankh-Morpork stood by to gawp and get rich. People have written that we got the Agateans addicted. Oh no, we’re not nearly so clever. We just found a vice already present and capitalised on it. Dirty business, that war.’

‘We’re still in _that war._ ’

He nods. ‘Oh yes, the current emperor isn’t keen on the substance. Nor is his vizier. I can hardly blame him, it’s a nasty drug. Though I’ve seen worse. It  does have it’s merits.’

‘ _Does_ it?’

‘Fantastic for feint hearted suicides and quiet assassination.’

I’m dry as I say, ‘those are the merits?’

‘Yes, a few of the few.’

‘Dragon called it “chasing the red dragon”.’

Vetinari smiles again. It’s not pretty.

‘Oh, he’s hardly a subtle man. Somewhere in our trading and wars and dirty deeds we brought it home to the city and made it our veritable currency.’

‘You don’t sound impressed.’

‘I’m not. But I’m not the patrician so there’s little to do about it.’

‘Other than trade it?’

He shrugs. On the desk is a pipe.

‘If not me than someone else. Even if me there is someone else. It’s how it goes. Now, Mr Vimes, what brought you here? I’m sure didn’t come for the lecture.’

‘Spoken to your aunt recently?’

‘Hm? Madam? A few days ago. Why? Is there news?’

‘I’m working on it. No news, just curious. She trains her girls? Picks them up from the street and makes something of them?’

Vetinari muses on this as my drink is refilled.

‘No,’ he says at last. ‘Not as such. They have to be in good condition. My aunt is a woman with many demands, little time, and even less patience. The girls have to be educated, at least in the basics, be able to pronounce a ‘th’ instead of slurring it to an ‘f’ sound,’ he smiles at me. I scowl.

‘What about physical condition?’

He nods, ‘oh yes. Pretty, of course. Unconventional, traditional or otherwise. It takes all sorts, after all. But they must be healthy.’

‘Does she check their feet?’

The mac blinks. I think I managed to jar him, a feat in and of itself. Or maybe not as his faces changes to something I can’t read and he looks up at the ceiling for a moment.

‘Yes,’ he says when he brings his gaze back to me. ‘Good condition all around. I don’t know the particulars beyond that. Feet checking or anything else.’ He waits. I sip my drink. ‘We’re both too busy to play this game, Mr Vimes.’

‘What game? I’m terrible at them. Can’t hardly play Go Fish without landing in the Ankh, let alone anything more difficult.’

‘I’m sure. I’ll be blunt then –‘

‘I wish you would.’ I light another cigar and blow out smoke. He stares for a moment before asking why I was making inquiries about the girls. He wasn’t aware that they had anything to do with the blackmail. He is cagey when he asks it. I shrug. ‘Following up a lead.’ I say at last.

He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t say as much but I can tell.

‘I think we’re starting to get on,’ I tell him as I stand and finish the drink. It’s swell stuff. I wonder how much it cost. I probably don’t want to know. ‘You’ll warm up to me eventually. I can see we’ll be the best of friends.’ I grin at his raised eyebrow. The delicate fold of his hands. Sod this lot to Bes Pelargic and back. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘Oh, there’s no need.’ He stands and crosses the room. ‘I’ll walk you out the back. Going out the front might not be wise.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Unless you want that man in the unfortunate yellow suite to see you –‘

‘Oh him?’ I snort. ‘He’s new to it. Hasn’t tailed anyone so far as I can tell. Anyway,’ a door is opened, one of those hidden slide-panel ones from Urt. We look into the alley. It might as night as far as I can tell. ‘I’m obliged for the drinks.’

‘I’m sure.’ He leans forward and plucks a flake of ash off my coat sleeve. ‘Blackmail, Mr Vimes. That is why you were hired. Not for finding lost girls.’

‘Lost is she? I thought she was dead. Your aunt said she was dead.’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘And which of us would you believe?’

I laugh at him and snub out the cigar on the doorframe, tucking the remnants in a pocket for later.

‘Between you and her? Neither.’

When I stepped out into the alley it was raining. The door stayed open until I turned the corner and started back for the Cham.

 

 

Sybil is making Whiskey Sours when I slam myself into my chair and begin smoking furiously again.

‘There’s a missing girl,’ I tell her when she puts my drink down. She looks arch. I continue. ‘I thought she was dead. The poor dame pulled out of the Ankh yesterday. ‘

‘Is the river reanimating people, now?’

‘What? Oh no, sorry. I thought the dame pulled out was one of Madam’s girls. Apparently not.’

‘How about Palm?’

‘Haven’t asked.’ I finish the drink and stare morosely at the glass. ‘I don’t like this case.’

‘Seems straight forward enough.’

I pull out a cigarette and work on it with a fury. I tell Sybil that oh yes, from the outside it’s simple. Mr Dragon is blackmailing that ritzy dame over some indiscretion. Make him stop. Sure. But there’s more. I don’t think a cove like Vetinari is anything like simple.

‘You think about these things too much.’ Sybil says. She pours us both another round. ‘You always have. Now what are you going to do about _my_ blackmail case?’

‘Seeing the Dragon later tonight about it.’

Sybil hums and perches on the edge of her desk. She picks up the evening addition, reads out the entertaining headlines.

 

 

Mr Dragon is conciliatory when I slink into his office. Aha…haha, he begins as I’m given a drink. ‘I didn’t expect you back so soon.’

‘We had an agreement.’

‘Did we?’

‘Don’t go pissing off people in this town,’ I’m keeping my voice amiable. ‘It’s not good business.’

The creatures smiles. ‘My dear Mr Keel,’ he purrs. It sounds sinister. _Vampires._ ‘I have been in business for lifetimes.’

I keep my silence.

‘I’m merely expanding my area of interest. Now, I wrote up a little diddy to your dame. I understand that wasn’t agreed upon…but with these things the sooner one acts the better. Aha…ha. You understand me?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Has she responded?’

He shakes his head. No, not yet. But be patient. Always be patient. He moves on and comments about the weather. I play along just to make conversation. After a moment I ask him about a man in an ugly yellow suite.

‘Know a cove by that description?’

‘Hardly.’

I tell him I don’t believe him.

‘Look, Mr Keel, I’m a man of honour and I believe you’re a man of your word. Why would I have you tailed?’

Playing along I mutter an apology. I ignore the drink because I didn’t see who poured it.

‘You got some competition I see. In the opium den market. Real competition I mean,’ I pause to light a cigar. ‘Not those rum joints. Ah, ah, what was his name? Long, a little foreign sounding, ah yes. Vetinari. Know him?’

Dragon gives a shrug that could mean anything. He says Vetinari’s a tough mac.  Though a bit of an upstart. Lacks the weight of a good, aha, pedigree, if you know what I mean. ‘I don’t play with men like him.’

‘You go for the long count?’

He smiles again. ‘In a manner of speaking. Why do you ask?’

‘Idle curiosity.’

The look he gives me says that he doesn’t think it was very idle but also that he doesn’t think me very smart. I can work with this. I tell him I’ll be back in a few days to hear news about the blackmail. At the door I say, ‘speaking of Vetinari. I hear someone’s got it in for his aunt. Wouldn’t be you, would it?’

Dragon smiles. In the shadows there appear to be wings unfurling. I close the door before he can answer.

 

 

Sybil asks what Dragon wants when I get back to the office and shake the rain off my hat and coat. It started halfway back and is pounding on the windows. She’s smoking and looking unconcerned.

‘He says I should check back in a few days.’

‘What are you going to do about it? Daddy’s very upset.’

‘I’m sure.’

She hands me a cigarette and a drink.

‘Of course Daddy’s upset that I’m working. He thinks I’m ruining the family name.’

I tell her it’s nonsense. I say there are other actitivies that could ruin it more. How’re the dragons?

‘Fine.’ She smiles. ‘How’s that case of yours? The missing Caroline?’

‘I’m not looking for her.’

Sybil rolls her eyes. ‘Try the other one, Mr Vimes. It has bells on it. Heard from Captain Angua today. The girl from the river was identified this morning. A shop keeper from Easy St. Sold knick knacks and generally useless trinkets. The sort of things you buy someone when you don’t know them.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Since you’re not looking for the girl, I thought you’d like to know.’

Sybil is a swell dame but she has a habit of hammering points. And hammering and hammering. I tell her it doesn’t signify anything, but thank you.

‘If you keep this up I’ll stop digging for you. And Mr Vimes, what _are_ you going to do about my blackmail?’

‘I’m working on it.’

She shakes her head and pours herself another drink. She holds it up and says, Cheers, Mr Vimes. But first sod you to hell, you bastard.

 

 

 


	7. Penny Dreadfuls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner. Some vampires. Madam is madam.

I wake to a nasty headache and the very bright sun. I’m next to my desk and Sybil has a look of obscene disappointment. She says that I _had_ said I would be able to get home all right last night.

‘Captain Angua thinks you might want to see her.’

I manage to slide back into my chair. Sybil is blue again. But a different shade, this time a darker one. The deep ocean blue of a dame ready for war.

‘Why would she think that?’

‘She thinks you’ve been asking some funny questions from funny people and you might want to get the straight scoop from her.’

‘Ain’t never met a straight copper yet. Look, be a dear, make me something to help me be human again.’ I can tell she wants to object but won’t. She makes it weak though, too much water and ice. It’s slammed in front of me.

‘It’s gonna kill you, Mr Vimes.’

‘Jolly good, glad something will. This city's been trying for years.’ I down it in a sip and give her a plaintive look. When this doesn’t work I try something like charm. That doesn’t go down well, either.

‘And you’ve got another appointment. With your favourite employer yet.’

‘Bloody hell, can’t he let a man alone? Look, tell him to sod off. I’ll get back to him tomorrow. I’m on the edge of it.’

Sybil gives me a look. It says that she’s not impressed. She hums, Well that’s your business, Mr Vimes. Then kicks me out so she can concentrate on her own work.

 

 

I slink into Mars’ and order two eggs with strong coffee, black toast, lots of butter. His son is off somewhere being a lout so it’s Mars cooking which means it’ll be a hit or a miss. Today, lucky for me, it’s mostly a hit with the exception of coffee strong enough to tear your esophagus out and mince it to a pulp.

‘News on the home front?’ I ask once I can see straight again.

‘Nothin’ new, Mr Vimes. Few girls gone off missing. But who’s to say that’s anything what with how things work these days. All those places, girls can go and make money just by bein’ a pretty face.’

‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

He shrugs. He apparently thinks otherwise. He clarifies, ‘well that’s just closed eyed business.’

I decide to not argue the point and tuck into the toast. After a minute, as he polishes the counter closest to me he mutters, ‘though some of them have been found. I hear from Bogus himself. And he ain’t a part of this. _He_ says it’s dirty and a bit scary and he’s keeping blinds closed, windows locked and lots of garlic about.’

This peeks my interest and Mars gives a conspiratorial wink.

‘Them deaders.’ He clarifies. ‘They’re all goin’ around pretending they’ve reformed. Given up the blood-sucking ways.’

‘Yes, yes, black bands and all.’

‘Well some haven’t.’

I push my plate back and ask what, exactly is he saying?

‘I’m saying, sure some of them girls are probably goin the way of Rosie and the likes. And some probably pushed off with lads. But others, others are probably somewhere we can’t find them because deaders are good at hiding things.’

I nod. Sure, and they have a thing for young ladies. How many have gone missing? ‘No news, at least none in the columns,’ I explain. Mars shrugs.

‘Coppers keeping it under wraps, I think. For whatever reason.’

Thanking Mars I slip him a little extra and push off. As I trickle down to Madam’s a young man comes and grabs me by the elbow.

‘Appointment at five,’ he says. I can’t mark his face because there’s nothing to mark. As in, he’s a brown, plain sort of chap. Nothing noticeable. Vetinari likes the unnoticeable. I tell him to go for a walk and his boss can go for one too.

‘I’m working on his case. Won’t get it done if he keeps interrupting me.’

The boy doesn’t look happy about this but slinks off just the same. I change my route and decide to wander for an hour. Give the lad some time to stretch his legs and think up a good story before he gives up tailing me and takes the news to Vetinari.

 

 

Madam is expecting me and I tell her I’m getting real tired of everyone knowing my actions but me.

‘Oh it’s something you get accustomed to, I’ve been told.’ She hums it. She’s in an evening dress and furs and pearls and is dripping wealth. We’re drinking champagne out of flutes. There’s music somewhere down the hall.

‘Seems a bit early for all of this,’ I tell her.

‘Never too early.’ She shrugs. ‘Besides, it’s always evening here. The girls are receiving their dancing lessons. The younger ones are at the piano, as you can hear.’  

‘Train them well.’

‘Someone has to.’ She stands and moves about the room. Her hands are un-gloved and wrists are draped in silver and pearls and little diamonds. On any other dame it’d be too much. It’d be death by glitter. On her it’s fashionable. It wears well and she could kill a man with her smiles. Her hair is in loose piles and more drapes. Someone needs to tell this family to stop putting the rest of us mortal macs to shame.

‘Any others gone off recently?’ I ask it as I pilfer through her newspapers. Her eyes are like arrows the way she stares.

‘Now why would you ask that? How’s Mr Dragon?’

‘Dragging his feet here and there. I think I might have something coming up though. That will solve your problems.’ I find this morning’s and open it up. A few notes about recent robberies. A brief column on the girl dragged out – the shop keeper. Nothing about how she died but I figured Captain Angua would be tight lipped about that. She always has been.

‘I _am_ relieved.’

I didn’t believe her. I tell her so. She laughs.

‘And you never answered my question, Mr Vimes. About the girls. All of mine are accounted for, if that’s what you’re asking. Sweet and cherubic, or secretive and clever, or exotic and wild – however you like it – they’re all here.’

Suddenly I’m standing and finishing the champs. It’s good stuff so I pour another half glass; I fill hers up as well. She’s still across the room, leaning into a bookshelf and watching with glittering eyes that match the jewels.

‘I want a list of all the men who come here. And women.’ Can’t make too vast of assumptions, I figure. ‘Their names and their addresses.’

‘I do believe Havelock told you that we’re not concerned about poor Caro.’

‘Yes well, you said she was dead. He says she’s missing. And the girl in the coroner’s office isn’t her. She hasn’t been reported or it’d be in the paper. That drunken lord is keen on her. One of your girls knows _something_ and no one is saying anything much. Though there has been a lot of talking.’ I pull out a cigarette and light it. The match is dropped in a day old martini glass. Next to one of those umbrellas broads are so fond of. The kind they nibble on the end of while biting their lips and looking cute.

‘Oh dear, Mr Vimes.’ She’s smiling. It’s quite something. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure some understanding can be reached before you go and mess something up rather terribly. Havelock says you’re more like a sledgehammer than a man.’ This amuses her. I don’t interrupt though I want to say that her nephew is more like a snake than a man. Albeit a rather well dressed one. ‘Speaking of my nephew,’ she has crossed the room and is now standing in front of me with champagne glass in hand. Her other hand rests on my arm and I find myself being very slowly guided towards the door, though she makes it feel like we’re in confidence together. ‘Havelock wants to see you. Sometime today, later, I think. Around five? Maybe six. The dear boy was never very direct about it.’

‘Been bloody direct with me.’

This brightens her up. ‘Oh good! I’m glad he’s making friends. I’ve always worried about that.’ We’re standing at the door and she’s stroking my hand. ‘Do be a dear and see him before he has a fit. There’s a good man.’

And I’m in the hall and there’s some girl here to show me the way out though I’ve got the route bloody memorised at this point. By the time I’m halfway down the street I realise that she never agreed to send me anything. Half of my mind wants to go back and make a demand, the other half sees wisdom and figures a walk and a smoke wouldn’t be out of sorts.

 

 

I settle down on a curb with a cigar and a flask of something strong I found in my jacket pocket. Next to it was a notebook and a pencil stub and I open it up to find an empty page.

I write “opium” and circle it. People are walking by and giving odd looks but I ignore it. There’s something there, something itching and I’m just on the verge of touching it – something where I will have it all sorted in my head and can buy a bottle of Scotch and call myself a clever cove.

I draw a line and add “missing girls”. I blow out some smoke and add “Caroline” underneath it. Then “Easy St” underneath that. A pause then a question mark for good measure. Mars had said that a few were going and I know him well enough to know he picks up true gems of information. Only a fool throws away what Mars offers in terms of information.

“Bogus not involved” is the next bit. I wonder if Downey is involved at all but decide that it would be classier; more black and posh knives, fewer bodies in the river and messy opium dens. “Vampires?” and then “Dragon” and then “Vetinari?” I wonder how Madam fits in, if she does at all, really. A cart rolls by, I can see muddy feet and horse hooves, dirty boots, broken and cracked leather. The city is moving around while I’m sitting, smoking, and drinking. I take a last pull of the flask and tuck it away. Somewhere in town a clock strikes five.

 

Vetinari is ready for an evening out when I arrive. He’s doubly swanked up and fixing cuff links when his clerk pours me a drink. He pours one for the posh bastard as well, like he would actually drink it. I stare at mine. It stares back. It smells awfully nice.

‘Been running after missing girls again, Mr Vimes.’ He says it nonchalantly with his back to me. ‘I do believe I told you that wasn’t your job.’

‘Not on your watch. What I do with my time is my business.’ It smells real, real nice. I scoot it further away. Our glasses are towards the middle of the desk, almost touching.

‘And at this moment your time is my time. Since I _am_ paying.’ He turns around and stares. ‘Madam mentioned that you might be close to finishing.’ I can’t read his face very well as he says this. He might have been mildly morose. As if such a man could be about much.

‘Soon, I think. Within a week.’

He thinks on this and sits himself down. I pull out a cigar and light it.

‘What are you doing this evening?’

I shrug. I say not much, this and that. I have some information I need to dig up. Oh, his face seems to say, such as?

‘I want to know who visits your aunt’s girls.’

I get two raised eyebrows. I congratulate myself.

‘Why? If I may be so bold as to ask.’

‘Following up a lead.’

He sits back a fraction, fingers lacing on the desk and he stares. I stare back before moving my gaze off to that blasted office wall. And now he’s tapping his fingers. Flash bastard is up to something, I just can’t plug what.

‘Which lead is this?’

‘Something on the Dragon fellow.’

‘So you need to know Madam’s customers?’

Somehow he makes me want to tell him things. He has an air that, while not confidential or conciliatory, makes a man want to spill things. I hold my tongue. I want that drink. Instead I blow out smoke and watch him.

With a full sigh he sits back. He says we’re not getting anywhere like this and he says my company amuses him so shall we go for dinner? I confess he caught me by surprise as I cough for a minute around smoke and severe desire to down that drink in front of me.

‘What?’ I manage.

‘Dinner,’ he repeats. He looks me over and a small frown tugs at his face. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do.’

‘Thought you liked my company. Told you we’d get along.’

‘Quite,’ a vague hand motion. His fingers are very pale. Like the rest of him except his hair which is very black. ‘I was thinking more your clothes. Though I understand from Ms Ramkin you don’t exactly own anything else.’

‘And why were you asking my secretary about my wardrobe?’

‘One must have information, Mr Vimes,’ he stands and crosses the room to the door. ‘Surely you, of all men, know that. Shall we? I think there are drinks somewhere along the way. Necessary rubbing of elbows and comments about the dreadful weather.’

I want to tell him to take himself off, somewhere. That I have plans. Plenty of them. Things to do. But the prospect of free drinks and a free meal that isn’t Mars’ grease is too tempting. Besides, the cove is well-dressed and holding open the door. I blow smoke at him and smirk, ‘you’re lucky I’m free tonight. Or else you’d be alone without my apparently _amusing_ company.’

 

 

The drinks are at Venturi’s who is more than a little surprised to see me. He’s a mac who thinks if he’s friendly and feeds you enough free booze you’ll keep tight about whatever it is you know.

‘Look, my good man,’ he says when he finds me by a window. ‘The other day. Best let past days be past days?’

‘Sure,’ I agree. He doesn’t seem to believe me.

‘So, uh, no need to mention anything to anyone?’ A furtive look around. ‘Especially not my wife.’

I agree. I say, Sure, sure, Lord Venturi. I pause, then ask, ‘any chance you know the names of other coves who like music lessons?’

‘I might.’ He frowns, motions for more wine for both of us. ‘Why?’

‘Mind if I pay a visit tomorrow,’ I hold up my hand. I spit at him, ‘don’t worry. I’ll come in by the back.’

He agrees. He offers a time of three and we shake on it. I watch him ooze off into the crowd when Vetinari slides over with an interested look. He asks what the man was so furtive about.

‘Oh, I saw him feeling like an amputated leg one morning at your aunt’s. Keen on some girl there.’

Vetinari is amused, ‘good gods, everyone knows about his proclivities.’ A pause. ‘Except maybe his wife.’

‘Well, it seems that’s who he was worried I was going to go to.’

A nod. Fair, fair.

Vetinari looks at his glass and shakes his head, ‘I somehow keep getting refills when I don’t want them. Do you want it?’

‘Just had one.’

‘Damn. Well, I’ll go surreptitiously pour it into Rust’s. Excuse me.’

He swishes off and I stare after him for a moment. I drink the wine and decide that Vetinari is damned force of nature – but sometimes a very subtle one. I don’t like it, I decide. I drink a little more. Then decide that I’m too firm on my decision.

 

 

We shift off around seven for dinner. There’s a low key swanky joint across the river that the cove is keen on. We take a carriage and it feels strange to be sitting in one. Vetinari, being swank but with style, has a plain black one. The window’s open and I take occasional drags from a cigarette. I decided, as we left Venturi’s, to save my last cigar for after dinner. The bloody posh bastard is looking pleased and mysterious at the same time. Again I think he’s up to something but cannot figure what.

We arrive and the staff are all over themselves to help him. I wonder, I know he’s not a lord but he’s loaded, but gods above does half the city try and treat him like he’s the bloody patrician. When the staff stop to look at me they become less sure. There’s a general assumption that I’m a clerk of some sort. They continue to be unsure when I disabuse them of the notion. I give them a wicked smile which earns no love on their end.

We’re seated off to the side and given more wine and menus and I’m given a few dirty looks.

‘It’s the clothes,’ he says amiably as he opens the menu.

‘It’s that they’re snobs.’

‘Hm, quite.’

‘S’true.’

‘I’m sure.’ He turns a page. I look down and notice that there’re no prices next to the options. And there are words in some barmy foreign language. Probably the meals will come out on large white plates and only be the size of half my fist. I eye the cutlery and notice that there is far too much of it.

We order. Well, he orders and I sort of manage to mumble something acceptable.

'Saw that Venturi knows a few vampires.’ It’s meant to be casual. Nothing said in front of this man can ever be casual, I am quickly finding out. Swank mac. Sod him.

‘Oh yes, old families.’ A grim smile. Something called an amusing bush arrives. ‘Very old. Very fine.’

‘Very dead.’

‘Of course.’

‘And this doesn’t bother you?’

I do my best to copy him when he eats it.

‘Should it?’ He seems curious. I’m not sure how this hasn’t occurred to him.

‘They’re…dead. They eat people. Or, you know, drink people.’ And they’re creepy, I want to add. Not a Vetinari-brand of weird. Proper creepy. A creepy I wouldn’t mind leaving out high and dry. The sort you don’t bring home to the ‘rents.

‘Oh that’s very old, the drinking thing. Most here in the city have given it up-‘

‘Yes, yes, the black ribbons. Etc.’ I pause. He’s staring. I cough. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘Quite all right.’ He sips his wine.

‘I just don’t think-‘

‘That they’re going to stop?’ He smiles. I don’t like it. It’s a sneaky thing. ‘An understandable natural human reaction, I suppose. However, I’m certain that you have nothing to worry about from any of the ones here in Ankh-Morpork.’ There’s a searching look.

‘And that Dragon, chap. He’s a black ribboner?’

‘So far as I am given to understand.’ He hasn’t stopped that searching look. I drink some wine and stare morosely at the plate in front of me. ‘Do you think he has something to do with the disappearance of Caroline, which, of course, you are not investigating on my time?’

‘I was just curious.’

‘Of course.’    

The main comes. It’s half the size of my fist. I think dreamily about a good plate of curry, a stiff drink, and a pack of cigarettes.

 

 

Over after dinner drinks in a different room I get a lecture on the grey area of the legality of selling opium. Vetinari has some opinions on this and seems disinclined to speak much about the big mac in charge of the city.

‘He’s a fool.’ Is the best I can get. Not even suggesting that maybe he, himself could do better makes him open up on that topic. He just sort of smiles and is bloody mysterious. There are penny dreadfuls full of black dressed dames who smoke and have husky voices that can do things to a man’s stomach and knees. I think that maybe the books need to add something about not-quite smiling and looking so damn mysterious all the time.

When we’re done with the drinks and feeling bored of the place we make off towards a dockside Rum joint. I get a second lecture of the insanity of making alcohol illegal in Ankh-Morpork.

‘If the patrician was actually worried about how much people drink he’d do something more productive about it. Making something illegal has never stopped anyone from doing it.’ We’re drinking brandy. This is probably the most animated I’ve ever seen this cove get.

‘What would you do?’

‘Make it legal, or rather for alcohol, re-legalise it. Make most things legal.’ A pause. A short laugh. ‘Won’t be breaking the law that way.’

I shake my head. I tell him he’s drunk (which he's not) and that the plan would never work (which it wouldn't).

‘Sure, no laws broken. Just a lot of chaos.’

‘Oh no, you give a reason for everyone to sort of regulate themselves.’

‘Like the Triads in Genua?’

He shakes his head. It’s furtive. He can be furtive, I discovered this night.

‘No. More calm, less ah, less _less_ than the Triads.’ He sighs. ‘I’m not explaining myself well at the moment. It’s late and I’ve had a busy day.’            

We decide to scarper after the last drink and he says to the man behind the counter, ‘put it on my tab, Mr Harolds. I’ll be by tomorrow.’

  

When we part ways I offer him a nightcap. The office is close by, I explain. Sybil always keeps some gin in there.

‘Oh, no thank you.’ He waves it off. ‘A man like you should know better than to break the law.’ He seems amused by this and disappears off down the road in good spirits.

I decide I should sleep in my own bed instead of the office floor so make a steady, if occasionally weaving, route back to the apartment. When I get there I smoke in bed till I fall asleep. I dream of dragons and brandy and patricians. 


	8. Jockey Full of Bourbon

My room is upside when I wake up but then it rights itself and there’s Ms Sybil standing in the doorway looking less than impressed.

‘He’s raised the demand,’ she says as she gingerly steps into the room. Brave dame, I’ve always thought. Though I’m not thinking too clearly at this point and focusing more on water and maybe a slice of toast. ‘I want you to go to him today and fix this. Or tomorrow at the latest. If you don’t I will.’ She is a dame without compare. She is a goddess enthroned in rage. ‘And I can’t promise _anything_ if I go.’

'All right,’ I raise my hands up in defeat. ‘I’ll go tomorrow. I need him on my side today, you see? I need to be John Keel to him today. Tomorrow I can be plain old Sam Vimes. But today, I’m close.’

There are faces swimming before me that remind me that I was with posh nobs the night before. And that mac Vetinari got me wasted and said something about patricians and the city and something else. And vampires.

‘I don’t think he’s a black ribboner,’ I explain. ‘I think – well, I’ll hold it close for now. Care to make me a drink?’

‘Only if it’s coffee.’

'Fine. Make sure it can strip the enamel off my teeth.’

She obliges. I can hear her muttering about the state of the kitchenette under her breath as I dress. She hollers through the door, How was your night out?

‘How you know I was out?’ I holler it back.

‘Word is that you somehow crashed Venturi’s garden party.’

‘It was a garden party?’ I didn’t recall seeing a garden.

‘Who got you in?’

I find a clean smelling shirt under a pile of books and try and smooth the wrinkles out. It doesn’t work.

‘Vetinari,’ I grumble as I wrench open the door and find her poking at the toaster with a sceptical look. ‘It only works if you hit it. And he’s the most obnoxious man I’ve ever had the bad luck to know. You’re saving my life, by the way. Coffee’s a godssend.’

‘Well save some for me. We’ll get toast on the way. I wouldn’t trust this to toast Dwarf bread let alone anything made for actual consumption.’ She turns. She’s silver today. With pearls. I tell her she looks swank. ‘Have a lunch with father dearest today. Must look the part.’

‘Going to try and marry you off to someone?’

‘Oh, no, that’s my aunt’s domain. Father is just father.’ She eyes me, fixes my tie then nods. ‘You’ll do. You’ve an appointment-‘

‘If Vetinari bloody bastard thinks he can just swoop on in-‘

‘Venturi said you wanted to see him.’

‘Oh.’

It’s a pointed look. I’ll admit that I deserve it. She raises and eyebrow, finishes her coffee, and strides off like a battle axe into the fray. If the fray constituted her father’s club, that is.

           

 

Venturi simpers and smiles and says, ‘look, old boy, I shouldn’t really be doing this. I know people and they know people and this could all be very akward, you hear?’

‘I hear. But if you don’t then it’ll be real awkward, old boy.’ I blow out smoke. ‘You hear?’

He makes a face. He declares that I’m not a gentleman and I agree. Damn good thing I’m not. If I was I’d be doing this honourably and we can’t have that, now can we?

I hand him a piece of paper and a pencil and sit back. He pulls a long face but does as expected. After a list of names he looks up, ‘you want only nobility or everyone?’

‘Everyone.’

He shrugs. You’re funeral, escapes in a sigh, and he scribbles another list. This one shorter since Madam doesn’t cater to those who can’t rub two sacks of coin together.

‘Any news on Caroline?’ He asks as he finishes up.

‘Why do you ask? I thought you were keen on the other gel.’ I offer him a cigarette, he accepts. We take a moment to light them and sit back. ‘That Mina.’

‘Well,’ he shrugs. ‘I thought maybe. Maybe she’d like me beyond my purse. She’s a mighty fine girl. But then the other night she was with that Vampire chap.’

‘Vampire chap?’

‘Ye-es,’ he sucks in smoke. Exhales. I can tell he’s remembering a name, a situation, a scene. ‘She was wearing a necklace I bought her. Being all _nice_ to me. Then that King of Arms chap walks in. Swank, posh, all black, very pale, slicked back hair. You know how girls go for the tall, dark and mysterious.’

‘It’s the smiles.’ I don’t know why I said that. ‘Those coves have those knowing smiles.’

Venturi nods enthusiastically, ‘yes, yes, exactly! What am I supposed to do against that? And _vampires_ they seem to be the thing all the dames are after. I don’t understand it. Regardless, this King of Arms comes in looking for Caro and Mina sort of says that she’s not in then they go off and I’m not sure what they said to each other. When he left I could barely get a word in to Mina since she kept going back to Madam and between some of the girls.’

‘King of Arms.’

He nods. Oh yes, that’s the name.

‘Got a first name?’

He shrugs. ‘I heard Tilly refer to him as Mr Dragon, but that could just be a name. He’s got one of those dens down on the waterfront, I think. Caters to the lowest of the low.’

‘Unlike your friend Vetinari.’

Venturi looks affronted, ‘I wouldn’t call Vetinari a _friend._ He’s hardly from a good family. Not proper. No title, no heritage. Money, sure. Not good blood though. And look who his aunt is.’

He leaves with an amiable shake of hands and gives me a pat on the shoulder.

‘For someone who isn’t a gentleman, you’re an all right cove.’

‘Thank you. And for someone who is, you’re not half bad yourself.’

As he walks down the hall he laughs. He says he’ll remember that one. Jolly good, old boy, jolly good.

I believe that Lord Venturi is the only man I’ve ever met who can say “jolly good” without sounding like an ass.

 

 

When he’s gone, and I hear the door downstairs slam after him and his carriage trot off, I manage to sink into my chair without doing too much personal damage.

Dragon was at Madam’s. Asking for Caroline. Just the other night.

Sybil comes in seconds later, ‘saw Venturi go off. How was it? He said to apologize for the sudden change of plans. He just didn’t want gossip with the staff if a PI showed up at the back door.’

‘Dragon was asking after Caroline at Madam’s and no one saw fit to _tell me_.’

She hums, ‘that might be because you’re not investigating Caroline.’ She smiles. ‘Vetinari was at father’s club. He told me to pass that on to you.’

‘What was he doing there? And not on his dime. Well, I’m not charging him for this so he can shove it up his –‘

‘Oh, he said something about seeing someone about the state of north gate walls. Drink?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ We drink in silence. ‘The state of the north gate walls?’

‘Oh yes. He sort of takes care of things. Things no one else really takes much care of.’

‘Bloody busy body.’ She rolls her eyes at me. I grin back. One of those nasty, full of teeth ones. ‘All right, I’ll play nice. I’m looking for a former working girl. She’s probably scared. She was probably up to something she shouldn’t have been up to and when the water got hot she jumped. Where would she jump to?’

‘Another ship?’

‘City, you mean? Naw, too much money to do that. Rosie, perhaps? Hm. Too obvious a change.’

‘She’s gone to ground then. Well, I’ll be you anything that Mina girl knows something about her. And Madam, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

We drink in silence. Outside I can hear it begin to rain.

 

 

It’s half two when I bang on Madam’s door. Mina opens, takes one long look at me, then closes it again. I bang some more. There are weird looks from the street as I start snarling at them to open the door. A moment passes and the door finally opens again and Mina looks like she’s ready to murder me.

‘Look, no playing around this time. I want to see Madam right now. No waiting. No being high-hatted. Now.’

‘You’re not the law.’

‘No, I’m not. Do you want me to get them? Captain Angua’s real keen on finding dames who’ve gone missing. She likes to keep an eye out for you girls and make sure you’re all right. I’ll go get her, then? Nice a proper like?’

‘You’re a brute.’

‘It gets results.’

She gives me a look that is better than half an hour of a piece of her mind but stalks off down the hall anyway. I assume I’m meant to follow and find myself being led into a different room than the usual airy parlour-sitting room-sunroom that Madam appears to be so fond of.

The older woman is in her study with a stub of a cigarette smouldering in an ashtray and wearing dirty shirtsleeves. She looks up with a scowl.

‘Of all the times for you to come.’ She leans back, motions to the chair. ‘Well, have a seat. Mina, get us some coffee. Mr Vimes looks like he could use a pot or two.’

‘Your nephew’s fault entirely.’

‘Hmm. I’m sure.’ She lights a new cigarette and doesn’t offer me one. ‘Well? You’re here about Caroline. I can tell the manic look of perceived social justice in any man’s eye.’

‘Mr Dragon was here the other night.’

‘Was he?’

‘Yes.’

She looks calm then nods. It’s slow and collecting her wool. ‘Yes, he was. Bothering poor Mina about Caro.’ She sighs, rubs the bridge of her nose. ‘Look, why are you here?’

‘Because your nephew told me not to investigate which means there’s something to investigate.’

This pauses her and I don’t know why. The dame’s as bad as her nephew with the mysterious looks and pauses. Though there’s no glamour here. No ritz and swank and diamonds and glitter. Just black coffee, old cigarettes, ash in tea cups, yellowing paper, no make up, lots of bags under eyes. Her hair is very grey in the dim light.

‘Fine, since you’re not about to stop digging until the entire city is flipped upside down, I’ll tell you. Caroline, which I can assure you is not her real name-‘

‘How-‘

Her hand is held up. ‘Do you think any of us use our real names in this business? We’re sex workers, Mr Vimes. We’re show girls. We’re actresses. Men want something that isn’t real. We provide this. Every night is a different story. We can be the exotic thing they want, even though most girls here were born half a stones throw away. And I can assure you, Mr Vimes. It’s things they want. Not women. Not a real person. They want the face we show them. Not the skin and blood and personality behind it.

I make sure they can impersonate accents. I educate them. I dress them and feed them. I have Johns who are too problematic taken care of. But I don’t ask them questions. That’s part of the agreement.

Caroline was relatively new. Only a year or so ago she arrived. Smart but surely. Angry. But some men like that so I decided to take her on.’

She pauses as Mina arrives with coffee and rolling paper. A tobacco tin appears and Madam begins rolling new cigarettes. She doesn’t look at me. She’s saying this as if it’s rout.

‘She was pretty in a severe sort of way. Black hair, very pale skin, dark eyes. She said her name was Caroline and I didn’t ask otherwise.

For the first while there was no problem, though she never went with the gentlemen-‘

‘Went?’

She looks up with an expression that can only be described as “you know _exactly_ what I mean”. I nodded. I stole one of her finished rolls.

‘But she would talk with them. Be with them. Listen, which is the main thing. She was very good at getting them drunk so they wouldn’t know any better when awake in the morning.’ A sigh. ‘But then I found her in my study one day with the filing cabinet open and I had to let her go. She’s alive, the last I saw. She mentioned a boy of hers. That she would go to him.’ She shrugs again. ‘Well, that’s it. Nothing mysterious.’

‘Why was Dragon asking after her?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Why was she in your filing cabinet?’

A delicate smile. ‘I’m a woman of means, Mr Vimes. She, quite obviously, wouldn’t be the first person to try and blackmail me.’

Try as I might she is a closed mouth after this. We dither on subjects about the weather. The north gate wall, which she remarks is in deplorable condition and that _someone_ should do something about it. I don’t mention that Vetinari is already, apparently, on that. She probably knows. Gods preserve me _this family._

 

At four Mina knocks on my door carrying a bottle of brandy and a scowl darker than the fury of the gods.

‘She told you she found Caro in her study?’

‘Yes. She lied?’

‘Yes. No. Both. Drink?’

I motion her in. There’s a note on my desk and I see her reading it, even though it’s upside down.

‘You close with her nephew?’

‘No. Though he won’t leave me alone.’

‘Drink? And I hear he’s like that. Weird bastard, all around. Real weird. But all right. Isn’t a creep like some of the guys who are around.’

‘Venturi?’

She pours two drinks and pushes a tumbler over to me. I stare at it. I decide that I’m not going to drink it on account of Vetinari apparently decided that I have an appointment with him later. Being sober around that man is a good decision.

‘He’s all right,’ she says at last. ‘Just a bit desperate. I feel bad for him. I feel worse for his wife. She’s in love with him.

Well, Caroline was in Madam’s office, sure. But look, Caroline was sort of Dragon’s girl. He came around often and they would talk in a corner and he’d leave. Sometimes he’d bring her a letter or two – her beau, I think, sent them. Other times she’d give him letters. I thought for a while they were replies to her beau – and I’m sure some were. But then it came out that she was giving Dragon information on Madam. And then he blackmailed her and Caroline was found out and left.’

‘Where’d she go?’

‘I don’t know. But her last name was Dearheart. Of that I am certain.’

 

 

Vetinari walks in at five and the drink is still on the desk.

‘Contemplating cheap brandy?’ He asks. He stands by the door, watching. ‘Or whether or not you understand instructions?’

‘Don’t be bloody cheeky about it.’

He doesn’t say anything. He’s always in black and is tonight and so looks like a shadow when he sits. I don’t think I know a single person who can be as expressionless as him.

‘I wasn’t. Have you found her?’

‘Not yet. But I’m close.’

There’s a moment as he thinks on this. He reaches forward and pulls the single glass towards him. He eyes the liquid. It’s a deep gold in the dying sunlight.

‘You have her name?’

‘Dearheart. Surname. She’s got a boy she’s holed up with.’

‘A con-man.’

It takes an effort but I manage to not look surprised.

He continues, ‘focus on the Dragon, Vimes. Everything will fall into place after that.’

‘Why can’t you do it?’

If it was another man I would swear that he looked surprised. As it’s Vetinari I’m going to assume it was a trick of the light.

‘Politics, Vimes. Politics. This city is balanced very particularly at the moment. I want to keep it as it is. Focus on the Dragon.’ He stands, offers his hand. ‘Shall we say dinner at seven?’

‘Bored again?’

‘You’re different. I’ll pick you up.’ He looks me over. ‘Try and dress nicer this time.’

‘Oh no. If it’s dinner again then I’m choosing the place.’ I mimic his look. ‘Try and dress down, if you can manage it. And I’ll bloody be by around half seven.’ 


	9. Bleeding Ball of Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT AN UPDATE WHAT IS THIS OH MY GOD. Three years later and I get inspiration. Never give up, they say.

What is this? The thought turns over in my mind as, at a little past half-seven, we ooze through oily streets. I picked up the damned man when I said I would and his standard of “dressing down” consists of a suit that is a sort of dusty-black rather than the impeccable black-black from before. I tell him he doesn’t do much for wardrobe variation. He just smiles that smile of his. The one I’m fairly certain I hate.

But, and this is the rubbing point here, I normally do not concern myself with the people I take cases for. It’s a simple, The dame walked in smelling of dying roses in summer heat – but that’s where it ends. But this half-hazard thing, this friendship? Acquaintance? Working relationship? I am out of my depth. Normally I reserve an undocumented amount of distaste for flash bastards rolling in the green. Venturi, Rust, oh gods half the macs at the dreadful cocktail from the night before. Sybil’s the only good one. She’s a bloody blessing. A furious, benevolent, loving, fearsome, awesome – too bad neither of us are made for marriage in this world.

Also her father would have shot me.

 

To the  current situation. I wouldn’t put this down as something a mac like Vetinari would do. Friendship. Or whatever. I drop the thought when he asks where we are going.

‘I know a curry place. Mo’s. Mustapha’s, actually, but Mo for short.’ I am itching for a smoke and a drink. I always do when nervous. ‘You don’t mind curry?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Good.’

He smiles the smile again.

We order and Mo is eyeing Vetinari with an expression of: what did the dog drag in this time. I want to tell him, Well at least he’s not like Nobby and won’t walk out with your spare change jar. But I keep silent except to order and say we should sit by the window. If we could see through it, I’d say it was for the view. More, it’s that I can open it and have a smoke. Ruth, Mo’s wife, isn’t one for letting customers smoke but doesn’t mind if we’re half hanging out the window.

The food arrives. We tuck in.

‘Well?’ I ask Vetinari after an acceptable interval of eating.

‘Well what, my dear Vimes?’

I point at him with my fork. ‘Well, are you going to tell me how you knew about the girl and her con-man?’

He waves me off. As if the question isn’t important. I resolve to question him after making him drink foul ale at the Mended Drum. If the silence is uncomfortable neither of us are obviously keen to be the first to break it. From the back Mo is shouting at one of his boys. There is a sense of chaos and calm at once. I imagine it is not unlike the sea before a storm.

‘How’d you get into the opium trade?’

Vetinari shrugs, ‘as I told you.’

‘I wouldn’t call your answer the other night a complete one.’

‘My family were, some still are, bankers.’

‘And?’

‘It didn’t work out. For various reasons. We had to expand the business and so,’ he makes a gesture with palms up. As if to say, _Now we have this_. ‘It was an uncle who began it, if you must know.’

‘And your aunt?’

‘She took a different entrepreneurial route.’  

He smiles. I snort. It occurs that since he offered for dinner a second evening in a row and I scarpered whatever plans he had in mind we might be missing something important. A decent part of me wants to inquire but the other part says sod it. The urge to discuss the case rises but I will be damned if that’s the only thing we talk about.

‘Let’s go,’ I say taking out a cigarette. I offer one. Cheeky cove takes one but makes a concerned frown when it’s lit. ‘I know a place for drinks.’

‘I am sure you do.’

‘Don’t get sassy with me.’

He raises eyebrows. His eyes are very blue. ‘I would never dare, Mr. Vimes.’

My turn to smile and I know it’s a nasty one as we take to the filthy streets. Glancing over I can see my companion has turned meditative. The sky is clouded over with smog and the aspect is gloomy. Humidity gathers. Scratches its back along walls and window pains. Rain, I think. It’s probably going to rain.

‘How did you fall into being a private detective? If we are on the conversational track of personal occupations.’

Flash bastard probably already knows the answer. Looking over, though, and he does look genuinely curious. It might be an act.

‘I used to be a copper.’

Expected raised eyebrows are not raised. He waits.

‘Then I wasn’t anymore.’

‘But you are still, hm how shall I say, a damn suspicious bastard?’

‘Always. I’ll die and they’ll put that on my gravestone.’

‘Oh not for many years yet, I trust.’

I shrug. Maybe, maybe not. With how this town runs you never know if the tall and skeletal is waiting for you around the next corner. I say as much and he nods and hums that, as he said last evening at some point, the city could use some cleaning up.

 

 

The Mended Drum is as loud as it ever is and after procuring drinks of questionable quality I drag the poor man into a quieter corner. Vetinari, I’ve noticed, does not discomfit easily. But there was a slight tightness about the shoulders. The fellow was out of his depths but trying to hide it. I raise my glass and say Cheers. He obliges.

‘You from Ankh-Morpork originally?’ I ask once we’re fully settled and he seems over the initial shock of Mended Drum house ale.

‘How do you mean originally?’

‘You born here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You grew up here?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Fine, you’re a foreign bastard, or raised elsewhere, but born here. All right. That’s all right.’

‘I’m glad I have your approval, Mr. Vimes.’

He likes to say Mister Vimes, I decide. Since he says it with great regularity and usually it’s only oily coves like Venturi who say it to remind me that I don’t have a title. As if that’s something a man forgets.

I make a noise of response. He is staring or memorizing or something but his eyes are very steadily on me and it is disconcerting. A person could write a novel on those eyes.

‘Your parents never teach you that staring is wrong?’ I ask.

‘Apologies.’

He blinks. Looks out to the crowd. I can feel my shoulders relaxing.

‘You and Sybil friends?’

Vetinari nods. Of a kind, he replies. We’re often at the same social events.

And you both deal in semi-legal, semi-illegal goods, I don’t add. Vetinari’s expression is gentle amusement. I suspect he knows my thoughts. His mind must be all ice and wheels and very blue. In the way that the air around the University tastes blue the inside of this mac’s mind must be blue and polished steel like a sword.

‘She’s rather fond of you.’ He says.

I blink.

‘She speaks highly of you, as well.’ He continues. ‘I trust Sybil’s opinion of people. She is rarely wrong. With a few, acceptable, exceptions.’

‘And who were those.’

‘Old school acquaintances. But we all are usually wrong about people with whom we spent our youth. It’s the fondness.’

I cannot imagine the man in front of me as a youth. Nor can I imagine him being fond of anyone aside from his aunt. And even that feels distant. Formally familial.

‘I can’t see you reading someone wrong.’

A delicate look. Calculating but not in a predatory fashion. I finish my drink and suggest perhaps moving somewhere else.

 

Outside it is raining. Of course it is raining. Naturally, I am not dressed for the rain. I hug the side of buildings under half-hazard over hangs. We come to a corner and Vetinari suggests perhaps a cab but I’m out of purse for the night and hate to tell him that and shake my head.

‘My place is close and dry and there’s whiskey.’

‘Is it the same stuff from earlier today?’

‘There’s better in the filing cabinet.’

‘By all means, then.’

The look then is a softer one. I ignore my stomach which is in knots and lead him through some of the quieter allies, up stairs, then inside.

‘Towel?’ I holler from the back room having left him dripping on the floor.

‘Please.’

‘There’s a moth hole in it.’

A shrug and he takes it. I see that he has hung his coat up and I kick the radiator which sputters. The room is warm enough I had just hoped for some aid in drying out soaked through clothes. The new fangled thing, an attempt by the current Patrician to modernize our creaking city, has come to naught. Besides, the company that was supposed to be in charge has run off with the money.

‘Gilt was never a man for business,’ Vetinari says amiably as he takes a seat and attempts to look less damp.

‘Whose that?’

‘The man who ran the board in charge of the radiators and keeping the city in gas. Well, let me correct myself, he was never a man for business if it benefited those that were not _him_.’

‘Con man, then.’

‘No more so than your usual business.’

I give him a pointed look. He positively beams.

‘I run in a crooked field, my dear Mr. Vimes, and so I must be scrupulously honest. Drumknott keeps my books. He is very thorough.’

‘And Dragon King of Arms?’

‘Crooked man in a crooked field. Bound to make enemies.’

‘Are you one of them?’

Vetinari searches the ceiling. I wish he wouldn’t. My patch jobs aren’t up to his swank standards I am sure. Not seeming to notice he takes his gaze back to me and asks if I have had any more thoughts on the case.

‘I need to find Caro,’ I hold up my hand. ‘I need to find her because she is associated with Dragon. You say focus on him, and sure, I will, but to get to him I need to find her. She was blackmailing your aunt because he wanted her to. I want to know why, maybe he had dirt on her as well, and look – it is all sort of like this in my head right now,’ I wave my hand to indicate ear bleeding chaos. ‘But it’s always like that before it becomes clear. Of course I’m assuming you’ve got it all sorted in that fancy brain of yours and you just want some sort of hammer to scare people or something. I’m not going to even attempt to unwind that. I’ll leave that as a mess.’

Vetinari looks infinitely pleased. He breathes out. Sips the whiskey I poured when we first got in. He says, ‘you are –‘

‘What?’

‘I have not the faintest idea why you think I would know the answer to this riddle.’

‘Because you’re you.’

‘That, strictly speaking, is not an answer.’

‘Like you’re one to talk about answers and non-answers. Where’s Caro’s boy? She’s got that con-man boy of hers. Where is he?’

‘You won’t leave off until I tell you, will you?’

‘I’ve been known to be bloody minded about things. Comes with the territory of being a suspicious bastard.’

He tells me an address. He pauses, adds that he can tell me Caro’s first name as well.

‘Adora Belle Dearheart?’ I repeat.

He says, straight faced as a copper, ‘her lad’s name is worse. I won’t spoil it for you.’

His infinite amusement at the situation is oddly endearing. The sense of humour there is a cruel one, I believe. Not harm to others cruel, but a sort of gallows humour with a healthy love of bad puns.

‘Can I get you another drink?’ I ask. He says he’ll do it. I shrug. He can help himself, the cabinet is in the corner. The whiskey is in the top one in the C file. There is a healthy sort of haze around the room and I am feeling rather warm but not in a summer of Ankh-Morpork sort of way. I think, half hazardly, Maybe I drink too much. Maybe I’d be able to solve things more quickly with a clear head.

But isn’t that the thing, though. If I stopped, would I still be able to function? If you’ve held onto something long enough as a crutch letting go is more terrifying thank slowly sinking into a hole of your own creating. One is familiar, the other a terrifying free fall.

I am not a brave man.

The setting of the glass down in front of me is gentle but enough of a movement, enough of a noise to bring me back to the room and the rain and the dripping coats in the corner and a set of very intense eyes that are, perhaps, a little concerned. It vanishes when I focus on him.

What if, a mad part of me thinks, I stop drinking but just pretend to be drunk. Imagine all the things I’d notice then. But no, too much of mind will be screaming for me to pick up on anything else.

‘I will sadly have to call it a night after this,’ Vetinari says as he seats himself. ‘Early morning rise.’

‘I thought your work would be more night oriented.’

‘I have meetings with a few people. Concerned citizens. That sort of thing.’

I nod. The north wall, I think. Or maybe something else like that. Maybe the damned radiators. Maybe the University can do something about the damned radiators. Magic’s their thing, isn’t it? And it was half magic, or so far as I understood how it worked which, let us be honest, was not very far.

‘Probably smart,’ I say. ‘Someone has to take care of the city.’

The look he gives is a queer one. A half smile. A bit of mischief about the eyes. I think he wants to say something. He drinks his whiskey instead.

We finish on a conversation about how the summer is ending and you can feel it turning in the breeze and then he is standing and putting on the still wet coat and waving off my offer of an umbrella. He’ll find a cab. I tell him that this is a rough area of town. He doesn’t respond. We’re standing by the door and he says, ‘This has a pleasure, Mr. Vimes. Shall we do it again, sometime?’

I nod for there is nothing else to do when a cove is looking at you the way he is looking at me. He offers his hand. We shake. When he leaves I feel giddy and work to tamp it down. The madness of a good case takes over a man, at times. Finding a cigar in my desk I seat myself in front of the office window to contemplate the rain and smoke.

 

The bleeding ball of chaos begins to unwind.


	10. nighthawks by the window

A mad idea occurs to me in the early hours of the morning. I’ve finished two cigars and I’m contemplating some of Sybil’s gin when it strikes. I think: Sam Vimes you idiot. But I’m going to do it anyway because it seems the most straightforward solution to the entire situation.

If Dragon has dirt on Madam I might as well relieve him of the burden. In my head is Vetinari’s cool expression and one that is clearly saying: this is foolhardy and I’m not paying you overtime for it.

I ignore it. He isn’t my boss.

The way to Dragon’s at four in the morning is through a soupy mixture of side streets and Ankh-Morpork’s humid gloom. The street lights aren’t lit as I near the docks and I cannot help but wonder if it is on purpose or out of neglect. My mind casts back to childhood days. We didn’t have lights then but there were boys you could hire for a penny who would carry a torch for you and light the way. I had spent many nights being that boy. For two pennies we’d wait outside of the destination to guide the mac homeward. If some of those lads ended up working for Bogus, or Bogus’ predecessor as it was at the time, well that was the hazard of needing light in dark places.

Before the current Patrician went the way of hatters he had the lights installed. In some areas they are reliable. They line well paved streets that have trees between them and sometimes, even, there are lights in the trees. People in places like that think they can see better for it.

I blame Vetinari for my brown mood and let myself into Dragon’s through a back window.

His office is as it was when I first visited. Moving from the window to his desk I pry open a bottom drawer, take out papers then feel around but there’s no false bottom. I do the same for the other drawers as well – still no luck. With a sigh I look around and spot a cabinet in a corner and scoot over to it. First port of call is to flip through the books. One is filled with some interesting numbers so I pocket it. The rest are either ancient texts from Ankh-Morpork’s more illustrious past or smut. I leave them aside. The drawers again prove to be of little use. Feeling along the back of the cabinet I notice that it seems further from the wall than it should be. A bit of maneuvering and blind groping and sheer luck a panel is located and pried open.

Gold.

And by gold I mean papers. I find the one on Sybil and pocket it. Then another on Rust – ha! It is left in the pile. I cannot take it all or else he’d notice. Eventually, towards the bottom of the stack are some letters in Madam’s handwriting. I skim them. Oh, very _delicate_ letters in Madam’s handwriting. About some very _delicate_ situations involving people of power in Pseudopolis, Genua, even Lancre. I take them. Look for some more but find nothing on Adora Belle Dearheart so the remainder are shoved away.

I pause. Do I feel like playing with fire? The panel, hidden behind Tacitus and a dirty collection of prints, is obnoxious in its presence. The Vimes family has never been one to play it safe. I return to it, grab the rest of his goods, and close it. If I end up in the Ankh tomorrow it will be my own damn fault.

As I put the office back to the order that I found it in there is a noise, presumably from the room next door. A shuffling, a movement of bodies. Opening the door to the hall I look in both direction then sneak off to the room next door. Inside, low beds and lounges. Curtains. A layer of grime. The smell of opium. One person closest to me has eyes closed and the palour of a dead man. I think nothing of it until I notice a bit of rust-red at his collar.

Vampires.

Can’t trust them as far as you can throw them.

I back out of the room and back into Dragon’s office, through the window and if I run back to my office can anyone blame me? There is nothing in this world that gives me the creeps more than vampires.

 

 

Sybil arrives at nine with coffee.

‘Have you slept?’

‘A little. On my desk.’

‘So no.’

I shrug. She’s a swell dame and puts a cup of black in front of me. Her face says: I want to tell you to sleep but I know you won’t listen to me so I had better see you drink that entire cup of coffee or gods help.

She can have an expressive face when she wants to. What colour is she today? All orange. It is bold. Most won’t try and pull off orange. She does it with grace and class.

‘I haven’t heard anything further,’ she says taking a seat at her desk. ‘From our mutual friend.’

‘Here,’ I hand the paper regarding her blackmail over. She inspects it.

‘How’d you get this?’

‘I did some light legwork last night. This morning. I figured I should pull you out of the soup since I didn’t mean to plunge you in as far as I did.’

The paper is now a source of disgust to her. She lights a match and burns it on a plate. Then she turns back to me and is angry.

‘You did exactly _what_ last night?’

‘This morning. Light legwork. After your cove took off around one.’

‘He had a meeting this morning.’

‘Yes. It was a half-baked plan I’ll admit but it came off all right. For now. Until he figures it out – Dragon that is – and sends hounds of hell to me. You should take some time off.’

She sucks in a breath. ‘If you think, Sam Vimes, that I am one to run in the face of danger-‘

‘Precisely,’ I point my matchbook at her. ‘You’re not. But it’s my fault blood suckers will be crawling around eventually so I don’t know. Visit a school chum.’

‘Hm no.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘All right. Stay armed, then.’

She smiles at me and says that she’ll instruct her father’s cook to make dishes loaded with garlic. I don’t tell her that the bloodsuckers that are after me aren’t black-ribboners anymore, judging by the man I saw at the den. I think maybe I ought to. What a thing, using opium addicts as permanent blood suppliers. I think perhaps I should tell Vetinari. But then I think, maybe he’s part of it? He’s chummy with all sorts. Many of them are not good sorts.

The thought is turned over but it rings wrong to me. In the way that Downey wouldn’t kill a man just because, Vetinari wouldn’t be involved in this the way Dragon is. On my desk is Madam’s file. Might as well close that one loop and then focus on Caro-Dearheart. If she’s missing and Dragon is after her it is only a matter of time before she and her boy are found.

My coffee is too good to be from Mars’ so I thank Sybil profusely and say she can take it out of the petty change jar. She waves it off. It’s nothing.

‘Gods I can’t keep doing this,’ I say, hauling my sorry carcass up to a standing position. ‘Getting too old to wake up hungover for…however long it’s been.’ I don’t look at her face as I leave. I’ve seen her concern too often for it to rub well. I think, on the way towards Madam’s, that perhaps I should try going cold turkey. I’m not bad enough where the tremens will kick in. There is an unusual amount of sun out and I resolve to myself: That’s it, not another drink at least until this case is solved. For the sake of my liver at the very least.

 

 

Madam breathes out a cloud of smoke as I am shown into her office. She looks to wearing last evenings clothes and I am glad that we’ve clearly had long nights. She offers me a hand rolled. I accept. Can’t turn down a lady. Especially a titled one. _Dames._ Mina is hovering around the edges of the room. She’s attempting to be wall paper. Madam shoos her with a wave.

‘How does my case fair? Have you located our missing Caroline?’

‘Dearheart. Adora Belle Dearheart.’

‘No wonder she decided to go by Caroline. Indeed, her. News?’

‘Not yet.’ I toy with throwing her papers onto the desk but decide to play for time. ‘Visited Dragon’s last night.’

‘Did you?’

‘Found some papers. Real interesting read they are, especially the ones on you.’

‘I believe you are supposed to be on my side. That is what Havelock is paying all that money for.’

I blow out a long stream. ‘I’m on no-one’s side at the moment.’

‘How diplomatic.’

‘Dangerous, you mean. Caroline’s boy. Not Dragon – her real beau – what’s his name? No, no don’t give me that “I haven’t clue look” my lady, I know you know. Or you know a pseudonym. You know something.’

‘You’re worse than Gilt in demanding information.’

‘Well I won’t run off with your finances if that’s any consolation.’ Her face tells me it’s not. But then she smiles and is all sweetness. She makes noise as she walks across the room to a portrait. It’s the sound of silk and brocade and jewelry and you could cut the decadence with a knife. The portrait is pushed aside and a safe opened. She plucks a letter from a stack of papers and reads out a name.

I laugh. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I am assuming that his parents were well meaning and living but terribly misguided.’

‘Between the pair of them-‘

‘Quite. Can I have my papers back? Since I’ve made the trouble of getting up the least you could do, as a gentleman, is not make me do it again.’

I tell her that I’m not a gentleman and she allows this to be true but a dame like her won’t wait for no man. When she walks over and leans down my eyes stay locked with hers. When she relieves me of her papers it is done beautifully. You cannot stay angry with a woman like Madam.

‘Thank you,’ she breaths.

‘Think nothing of it,’ I mutter.

She casts a graceful smile over her shoulder and tucks the papers away in the back of the safe.

Reclining down into her chair, which does from a standing position so it is more a gentle drop down into a lounging, languid pose than the rough-shod approach of sitting then lounging. Madly, I think she must have been a dancer. Or a performer. Burlesque or some such. She moves with the poise that dancers and actors have.

‘Well?’ She asks as if she just noticed that I haven’t left. ‘Hair of the dog?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Would do you good.’

‘I’ll pass. Thanks all the same.’

She shrugs and pulls a bottle out from a desk drawer. The things this dame keeps in desk drawers.

‘What do you know of Dragon’s business? Beyond the obvious.’

‘He’s no good,’ she replies after taking a considering sip of her cure. ‘Havelock’s been – well, let us say that King of Arms is causing trouble. Syndicate trouble like in Genua and it is going to end sooner or later and it is going to end poorly for everyone.’

‘He’s a vampire.’

She inclines her head.

‘Everyone says he’s a black-ribboner.’

‘Are not all who live in Ankh-Morpork?’

I smile around the cigarette. There isn’t much of it left so I plunk it in the cup of cold tea on her desk. I say that we all should know better than that. She replies that it’s prejudice, that is all. Cannot judge a person for being differently alive.

‘No,’ I agree. ‘But I don’t like the way he is going about being differently alive. Rubs me wrong.’

‘If you can prove there’s been foul play of any kind, beyond the city’s usual, I am sure that the Watch would be interested.’

‘And your nephew.’

‘Havelock? Oh yes, he is interested in everything.’ She finishes her drink and says that she had best get started on the day as it’s already late enough in the morning. Hadn’t I better run off to tell her nephew that I’ve done my duty? I say that I will in my good time. Don’t nickel-and-dime him, she says smiling. Honey, I think, would take a smarter man than me to do that to Vetinari.

We part of amiable terms.

 

 

Arriving back at the office I find the door partially open. A quick glance confirms that it has not been forced. I grope for a weapon but find I am unarmed. There is nothing in the hallway either to make shift with. A quick decision and I opt for the slow opening rather than quick.

Standing so if somewhere were to rush me they’d have to get around the door first I gently push it open and peak in.

Fucker has his boots on my desk.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, slamming the cursed door behind.

Vetinari looks up from his newspaper.

‘Waiting for you.’

I scowl at him then stalk around to my chair. I growl out an offer of coffee since he is about to pay me I might as well be sweet to him. He declines.

‘Madam informs me that you have solved her troubles!’ He beams.

‘I have.’

‘Excellent,’ a book is produced and he scribbles down a number. ‘Take that to my bank. They will make good on it.’

I attempt to not boggle at the number. I assume my attempt drastically failed. He is amused, a flash of it, then he isn’t anymore.

‘Mr. Vimes, when I said that I hopped we wouldn’t be putting up your gravestone too soon, I was quite serious.’

I search my desk for something to smoke.

‘So when I heard that someone broke into the Dragon King of Arms office-‘

‘Dunno what you’re talking about.’ Success! There was a spare pack of rolling paper in between the bills I’ve been meaning to pay. Now for tobacco.

‘I am quite serious.’

‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.’

‘Vimes.’ I look at him, the cigarette is half-rolled. ‘You have done what I employed you to do. That is enough.’

‘Sure.’

He stares at me. I resist the urge to look away.

‘Leave the rest alone.’

There was a dead body last night, this morning, whenever. I recollect this again. Not that I had forgotten, necessarily, but rather through the haze of too much whiskey it had sort of seemed unreal. They say shock settles in long after an event. I should know that now. Gods know I’ve seen enough.

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Or won’t.’

I nod and light my cigarette. There you are, Mr. Vetinari. Right on the nose. When I go to ash in the coffee cup from this morning I notice my hand shaking. I know he noticed it, too. Damned if I am going to say anything, admit anything. I shove the cigarette back between lips and scowl at him.

He looks as if he is going to say something and I half-wish he would just to get whatever it is out because it’s been hanging there in the front of his damnable mind for at a few days now. I can see it. But he’s a mac who isn’t about to show his cards. He plays hard, fast and for keeps. If Uberwald Roulette were legal he’d play it.

‘You’ve paid me. I’ve done your job, what I do now is none of your concern.’

Oh the flash mac wants to protest this point! It’s rather sweet of him, really. Being concerned. I doubt he’s ever been concerned about anything in his life.

‘Very well,’ he sighs. Stands. ‘Before you go off and get yourself killed would you do me the honour of having dinner tonight? It’s my turn to choose, I believe.’

I would spread my hands and say, ‘naturally’ but as they’re shaking and I can feel a headache dawning I merely nod. He stares for a long moment.

‘Have a drink.’

‘What?’ I snap.

‘Have something to drink. If you actually want to function enough to resolve this affair then you have to have to a drink. Do the detox after. It’s madness otherwise.’

‘What would you know of that?’

‘I’m a high class drug dealer, Mr. Vimes. I know quite a lot, as it happens.’

I nod. He gives an elegant shrug and departs. Damned mac is right, of course. It’ll get worse before it gets better. When was the last time I went a full twenty-four without a drink? I can’t recall. I was possibly still drunk when I made this resolution. Isn’t that always the case, though? Wake up like hell, think, I’m never drinking again. Fall off by tea-time.

I pour myself a finger from Sybil’s gin. I’ll have to replace her bottle at some point as at this rate it’s mine more than hers.

‘Medicinal.’ I tell the room. I slam it. Fucking pine trees down the throat but it was necessary. Gods it was necessary.

 

 

The afternoon sees me to Angua’s office in the Watch House. Not much has changed since my time there. Still the same stains, the same grime, the same slouching constables even if their faces have changed. Nobby touches his helmet and says that the captain is upstairs.

‘The girl you dragged up from the river?’ I bang into her office. She gives me an exasperated look. ‘Can I see her?’

‘Police only, Mr. Vimes. You know this.’

‘Fine, can I see Cheery’s report, then?’

‘Also confidential.’ She sets her paperwork down and folds her hands. She’s a hard dame and a good cop. A damn good cop. ‘What is this about?’

‘A hunch. Can you give me a vague description?’

‘Mr. Vimes…’

‘We can go for coffee. That way you won’t be on duty when you break the law.’

Her mouth opens then closes. ‘You once cared about that.’

‘Yes, when I was your superior. I’m not anymore. Coffee?’

She looks about to say no but then switches and says fine, it is during her afternoon slump after all. A little pick-me-up wouldn’t hurt.

The newspaper shop around the corner sells a fine cup so we stop there then loiter under an overhang. The mugginess has not been improved by the sun and there is a fine smog settling in as the day careens on towards night.

‘She was no more than twenty five. It’s hard to say how long she’d been dead. Water, especially Ankh water, doesn’t help establishing a rough TOD. Also lacking blood.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was bloodless.’

‘Vampire.’

‘No. Well, there were none of the usual signs. Look, we’re keeping this on the DL. Last month we pulled out a floater who was also in the same state as our shop-girl. We don’t want a panic so this goes no further, understood?’

‘Loud and clear, captain. One more question, opium. Any signs of her or your other floater using it?’

She looks at me for a long moment then nods. Very slowly.

‘We aren’t sure,’ she says. ‘Because of water and blood-loss, but Cheery said that there are signs that point in such a direction. Your Vetinari chum not tied up in this is he?’

‘I wouldn’t call Vetinari and I chums, exactly. And no, no. I shouldn’t think so.’

‘If you find out anything-‘

I am tempted to tell her about Dragon and lay everything on the table but I know that as soon as it is out that the cops are to raid Dragon will have that den empty and there won’t be a single piece of evidence left. He’s smart and has had hundreds, if not thousands, of years of experience.

‘I promise,’ I say as we finish up. ‘If I get anything firm evidence wise, you’ll be the first to hear.'

She accepts this with some doubt but I can’t blame her for it. She’s too good a cop to trust a gumshoe.

'Oh,' I call after her. 'You know a man named Moist? Moist von Lipwig?' 

Angua shakes her head. Never heard of him. Why? I give her a description and this gives her pause. 

'Maybe.'

'As a favour?' I ask. 

She sighs. 'Fine, as a favour I'll take a look. Anything else to go on?' I give her his girl's name and this registers although Angua doesn't say as much. She promises to have some note sent around this evening. I say send them to Sybil then. I might not be in. The smog is brown as I make my way back to the office and I wonder if I should be dressing up or not for the evening but as I only own a suit and a half Vetinari will have to take me as he finds me. 

'An odd way to become friends with a man,' I say to Sybil who has returned to do some light research. 

'He's an odd fellow so this does not surprise me,' she replies. 'And Havelock's a dear once you get to know him.' 

'I keep hearing this but I've yet to see it.' 

Sybil laughs at me and leaves with a wave of perfume behind her. Off to fend off her aunt's latest set of suitors. I wish her luck. She replies that she'll be fine, apparently I'm the one in need of it. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Opium and Old Tea illustration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241188) by [ewela1130](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewela1130/pseuds/ewela1130)




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